


Tit for Tat

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Drama, F/M, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-03-18
Updated: 1999-03-18
Packaged: 2018-11-11 00:45:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11137887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: A study of character reversals for Fraser and Thatcher as events unfold.





	Tit for Tat

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

Tit for Tat

 

**Tit for Tat**  
by Jean Tryon  
© September 1998  
 **PG-14 for language, sexual innuendo**  
Categories: Humor, Romance (M/F), Drama  
Background for writing **_Tit for Tat_** :  
As the third season opened, it was important to weave the "new"Ray's  
character firmly into the script but this was at the expense of giving  
the viewer further glimpses into Fraser's background and personality.  
  
After Fraser establishes his relationship with Ray Kowalski, what better  
way to confuse him further than by throwing him more curves, _i.e._  
have other things be reversed? My ideas for reversals came from two  
sources:  
  
The first was an interview with Paul Gross in which he said that Paul  
Haggis offered him the part of Fraser because "I don't think you  
can do it." PG said he took the challenge, if for no other reason  
than to prove PH wrong. My reversal for this is: after working so hard  
(and being spectacularly successful) to establish Fraser's character,  
how would PG handle a complete change in Fraser? Would he find it to  
be a piece-of-cake or difficult and challenging?  
  
The second came from the Live Chat on IRC dated 5.8.96. PG was asked  
if The Dragon Lady (Inspector Margaret Thatcher, as played by Camilla  
Scott) was a good kisser (referring to the 'train kiss' of _All the  
Queen's Horses_ episode) and he answered, "On what kind of scale?"  
This struck me to be slightly condescending to the acting abilities of  
Camilla Scott, who was outstanding in her own right on Due South. So,  
I wanted PG to _put his **mouth** where his **money** is._  
(A reversal within a reversal.)  
  
As clever as the stories were - solving convoluted crime cases, what  
heightens drama is the dynamics of interpersonal relationships. The  
relationship of Fraser and Thatcher provides a very fertile field. So,  
let me tell you a story about that.....  
  
This is a story of reversals and would fit in just after _Mountie on  
the Bounty_.  
  
Disclaimer: The characters are the property of Due South, Alliance, and  
whoever else legally claims them. No copyright infringement intended.  
I claim copyright to the story itself in its entirety and it may not  
be used or reproduced without permission, except for personal reading  
pleasure. Any and all comments will be _gratefully_ appreciated.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
  
CHAPTER 1  
  
I can do this, she thought, as she nervously smoothed the soft  
folds of dusky-rose chiffon across her hips. Oh, damn. Maybe I should  
have worn the other dress. More to the point, why, oh _why_ , did  
I choose this song? She glanced up as she heard the applause start.  
From her position in the wings just off-stage right, she watched as a  
man was taking his bows at center stage. All too quickly the Emcee emerged  
from the opposite wing to take the microphone.  
  
She faintly heard the Emcee drone, "Thanks, Eric. Ladies  
and  
gentlemen, let's hear it for one of the upcoming tenors for  
Chicago Light Opera: Mr. Eric Logan!! Take a bow, Eric." As the  
applause waned and Logan exited the stage toward her, he hissed, "Break  
a leg, darling." _  
_  
"I'm not your dar....," she began to retort, but  
stopped short as she heard the Emcee continue his patter with the audience.  
  
"....I also want to thank all of you for coming tonight  
and your contributions to help keep the Theater going. And it's just  
great that all these people are donating their talent to our fund raiser.  
Now, I want to present a lady with a beautiful voice. Here's Meg Thatcher."  
  
She hurriedly adjusted the long scarf over her shoulders and  
stepped onto the stage to polite applause. With a glance at the pianist  
and a imperceptible sigh, she began her love ballad.  
  
" _....And do you know of my love, my Love, when....._ "  
  
Good God, she thought. He isn't even here. Doesn't know I'm  
doing this. Did I really read these lyrics carefully beforehand? She  
closed her eyes to hide her embarrassment and lost herself in the music.  
  
".... _Can you feel my hunger....._ "  
  
Meg looked out to the audience.  
  
" _....Do you belong to another....._ "  
  
She almost missed a tremolo, as each seat in the darkened theater  
now was occupied by the same man. Red serge. Dark hair. She could  
not make out his features. Blink. Blink. Were her eyes playing tricks  
on her?  
  
" _....How did I exist without you...._ "  
  
How _did_ I exist before you came into my life, she mused.  
Empty. Meaningless. Going-through-the-motions. Why am I getting all  
teary? God, I need to get a grip here.  
  
" _....And so if I ask, if I call, will you answer?_ "  
Meg reached out her arms as if to draw him to her, " _....I will  
wait forever, my Love._"  
  
She ended with her eyes brimming with tears, arms still outstretched,  
as the audience began a thunderous applause. With a slight nod to the  
accompanist, she hurriedly left the stage before the Emcee reached his  
microphone at stage left. In the wing Meg daubed her eyes, trying to  
clear them, and bumped into a woman who was part of the throng of performers  
and stage hands milling around.  
  
"Wow! You vamp! You had every man in the audience aching  
for you," the woman exclaimed as she caught Meg by the arm. "Were  
you singing to your husband?"  
  
Meg struggled to regain her composure and disengage from the  
woman's touch. "I'm not married. The RCMP is my career."  
  
"Oh, yes. The RCMP. The Program flier mentions that.  
Tell me, does it pay well?" The woman paused slightly and then  
went on, "Well, not that it matters. So, were you singing to your  
boyfriend out there?"  
 **  
**"No boyfriend."  
  
"Come on! All Mounties are gorgeous! That red coat....The  
wide stripe going up the leg....the stripe _does_ go all the way  
to the top, doesn't it? ....So, you must have some Mountie guy stashed  
somewhere. Pretty thing like you ought to attract them like flies to  
honey."  
  
Thatcher was starting to get annoyed by this overbearing bitch.  
What business was it of hers? "Afraid not." She began edging  
toward the hallway. "Excuse me, but I've got to go now. Tell Vince  
that I was happy to help out in the fund raising. I hope the benefit  
has raised a lot of money for the Theatre."  
  
As she walked back the deserted hallway to the dressing room  
area, Meg could hear the throbbing on-stage music as other performers  
were doing their bits. Thatcher approached the darkened office. Through  
the window of the door, she saw the faint flickering of a flashlight  
inside. This is strange, she observed. What's going on here? No lights?  
Wait a minute! Is some Chicago low-life robbing the place?  
  
She cautiously pushed the door open, slid inside, and crept  
toward the light. At the far end of the room she was able to discern  
the shadow of a man. The door to the wall safe was gaping open and the  
man was stuffing its contents into a tattered gym bag.  
  
Time to put all that RCMP training to the test, she thought  
with determination. Meg came up behind him and then in a loud voice,  
said, "What the _hell_ do you think you are doing?"  
  
The robber did not react as she expected he would. Instead,  
he rammed his arms backwards and knocked the wind out of her.  
Before she could recover, he turned on her. They began to scuffle: a  
wild scene with each trying to grab the other and each trying to escape.  
A lot of office space was used - walls, desks, file cabinets. He threw  
her across a desk and her bare arms were scratched as they skidded over  
the surface.  
  
In the dim light Thatcher saw a paperweight which she picked  
up to throw at him. He sneered in laughter as he easily deflected it  
to skitter harmlessly across the floor. Damn this scarf, she panted  
to herself. It's spoiling my aim. Oh, shit! The long free end of the  
scarf was caught in the adjustment knob of a secretary chair. Try as  
she could, Meg could not free herself, since she had so neatly wound  
it around her neck before going on stage.  
  
"Got ya now, you bitch!" the man hissed as he yanked  
the scarf free. In the darkness, several sequins fell from the hem and  
rolled to rest under a desk. He pulled the scarf tight around her neck,  
grabbed her wrists and bound them with the scarf. Before she could call  
out, he used the other free end to wind it across her mouth - a very  
effective gag, indeed. He trussed her up like a calf at a rodeo. Grabbing  
the loot-filled gym bag, the man pushed Meg toward the door. He checked  
to see that no one was in the hallway and then manhandled her toward  
a rear exit.  
  
They burst out the door into the dimly lit, rain-slick alley.  
As the larcenist pushed Thatcher toward his old, unwashed junker car,  
she fell against the dirty car door, crumpled to the ground and soiled  
her dress, arms, and face. He grabbed her and pulled her up.  
  
"Get in there," he snarled and crammed the still  
struggling Thatcher into the car. As he slammed the door shut, she flipped  
the free end of the sequined scarf out of the door jamb. He had some  
difficulty getting the car started but after several backfires and smoke  
coming from the tailpipe, he finally was able to get it going.  
  
The car sped off into the night: tires screaming, the scarf  
bouncing over the wet pavement in rhythm to the potholes.  
  
  
CHAPTER 2  
  
With the headlights extinguished, he guided the car to a stop  
behind an abandoned warehouse. He glanced up the road, saw no one around,  
and slipped out of the car. As soon as he opened the passenger door,  
Thatcher began to struggle but he roughly hauled her out and shoved  
her into the warehouse.  
  
In the shadowy interior the robber had his hands full. After  
retying Meg's wrists in an arms-forward position with some rope he had  
found, he tried to toss the long free end of the rope upwards toward  
a ceiling beam and control her struggles at the same time.  
  
"You sure screwed up my plans, lady."  
  
What plans, you scumbag? Meg tried to say but it only came  
out as unintelligible grunts from behind the gag. She could not get  
free of him--he was holding the rope too tightly. She tried to stomp  
on his feet but twisted her ankle instead. Damn these heels! Why couldn't  
they have taught me the art of self-defence in anything but regulation-issue  
Mountie boots?  
  
"Don't fight it. You're gonna be here until I figure out  
what to do with you," he warned her as he made another toss with  
the rope.  
 **  
**Thatcher saw her chance. "Ummmph!" She knee-ed  
him in the crotch as he extended his body. You bastard! You want to  
play hardball? How about me giving you some?  
  
The man let out an agonized cry and doubled over in pain.   
"You bitch! So that's the way you want to play it," he gasped  
and slapped her face. She continued to struggle and move her head side-to-side;  
the blow had slightly loosened the gag. Finally, he was able to throw  
the rope over the rafter and strung Meg up so her feet barely touched  
the cement floor. As he snubbed the rope off, the gag fell from her  
mouth.  
  
 ** _FRAASERRR!!  
  
_**  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
 ** _  
_**Fraser bolted upright in bed. His red longjohns, soaked  
in sweat, pulled across his chest. As he wiped the sheen of perspiration  
from his forehead with a sleeve, he glanced around his office. "What  
was that?" he asked aloud. "Inspector?....Inspector?"  
He looked at Diefenbaker lying by the desk. The wolf-dog was muttering  
and whining to himself. "Inspector?" the Mountie called more  
loudly. Hesitantly, he got out of the rumpled bed and, with the sweaty  
longjohns pulling and straining around his body, he padded into the hallway.  
  
"Inspector? " Fraser queried as he opened each door.  
"Sir?" he called into the darkness of her office. Hearing  
no reply, he shook his head in puzzlement and with a characteristic "Hmmm,"  
returned to his room.  
  
"For God's sake, settle down," he said to Dief who  
was still muttering. "I must have been having a bad dream. You're  
deaf! How could you possibly hear something I was dreaming? Can you  
lip read dreams?" And then more to himself than Dief, "I'm  
soaking wet! Got to get out of these," and tore the sodden longjohns  
off. In the darkness he stood looking at the tangled sweaty bedsheets  
and blankets as faint wisps of steam rose from his overheated body. Too  
hot, he thought. He pulled the Hudson Bay blankets off and threw them  
in the corner. Straightening the sheet, Fraser laid down on the cot,  
extended his arms over his head and waited for his body to cool down.  
  
"Son...."  
  
"Oh, God! You know, dad," Fraser said angrily as  
he scrambled to cover himself with the sheet, "I've got the right  
to some privacy occasionally. Don't tell me _you_ can lip read my  
dreams, too."  
  
"Of course you need privacy, son. But that's not important  
right now. What _is_ important is that Inspector Thatcher needs  
you," the ghost of Robert Fraser replied as he gazed down at his  
son.  
  
"It was only a dream."  
  
"No....no. I heard her. Quite distinctly as a matter  
of fact. You know she doesn't ask much of you. She relies on you and  
she is asking for your help. Just as she asked you to..." Fraser,  
Senior paused to crack his neck, "...give her a leg over."  
  
"Oh, right," Fraser retorted. "You really had  
me convinced on that one. I listened to your ditherings and was so embarrassed  
when she said she meant she wanted to adopt...I'm not going to put myself  
in that situation again. I suggest you go find someone else's dreams  
to eavesdrop on." He punched the pillow, rolled toward the wall  
and added, "I'm going back to sleep."  
  
"Hear me out, son. I am sure...."  
  
"I'm ignoring you," Fraser said to the wall.  
 **  
**"Son, listen to me!" **  
**  
"I'm asleep now."  
  
  
CHAPTER 3  
  
 ** _  
_**Fraser, wearing his beloved dress reds, was filling  
out some 10989B reports at his desk. Or at least, trying to. He scratched  
out a few words and then stopped. Absentmindedly, he rubbed his jaw  
and gazed unseeingly around the room. No evidence remained of the scene  
last night: the bed was remade with the sheets so tightly drawn a Loonie  
could bounce off it; the Bay blankets were neatly folded at the foot  
of the cot.  
  
He sighed and returned to the task at hand. He added a few  
more words to the report, shuffled some papers to check references and  
ran a hand through his hair. He pushed back his chair, arose, and with  
much preoccupation began to pace the tiny room. He stopped and, with  
hands behind his back, stared out the window. Finally, the siren of  
a fire truck charging down the street interrupted his revere. Another  
sigh. A few more words into the report.  
  
"Oh, dear," Fraser said as he checked his watch.  
He abruptly left the room to find Turnbull.  
  
"Turnbull," Fraser asked the subordinate Mountie  
who was diligently poring over paperwork at the hall desk, "do  
you happen to know where Inspector Thatcher is? It's odd that she hasn't  
come in today."  
  
Turnbull looked up. "Oh, sir, I wouldn't presume to know  
her--"  
 **  
**"I'm not asking you to presume anything."  
 **  
**"She never checks in with me. Does she check in with  
you?" Turnbull went on enviously. "Which would be perfectly  
understandable with your seniority. After all, I have only two service-year  
stars and you have three and you've had so much more experience..."  
Fraser's eyes began to glaze over. "...But since she is our superior,  
I can't imagine why she would check in with anyone. On the other hand,  
you would think that she is accountable to Ottawa--"  
  
Fraser had to put a stop to the idiot's ramblings. "Turnbull,  
I didn't want an expository. I just asked a simple question,"  
and turned away to head back to his room. "Never mind," he  
said over his shoulder.  
  
Upon returning to his desk, Fraser valiantly tried to finish  
the reports but could not concentrate. What is _wrong_ with me  
today? he thought with exasperation. He finally threw his pencil down  
and picked up his Stetson. "Come on, Dief," he called, "let's  
get out of here," and left the Consulate.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Deep within the bowels of Precinct 27, Lieutenant Welsh was  
having a hard time keeping his temper under control as he listened to  
the caller prattle on.  
  
"Yes, Ma'am. I understand your concern. I'll have a  
couple of my detectives come right over." He paused as the voice  
became more strident. He wiped his brow and looked with supplication  
to the ceiling. God, he thought wearily, you'd think someone had bombed  
the Sears Tower, or worse yet, the United Center...Wonder what this town  
would be like without the Bulls? He reluctantly pulled himself back  
to attend to the telephone caller.  
  
"Yes, Ma'am, you already gave me the address. I wrote  
it down. Chicago's best detectives work out of this precinct....Yes....Well,  
don't touch anything else....No, you did the right thing. How could  
you have called it in if you didn't pick up the phone?...Yes, Ma'am,  
it's a travesty...Someone will be over shortly."  
  
"Finally," the Lieutenant sighed in relief as he  
hung up the phone. He gathered up his four pages of notes and went out  
to the area of the squad room affectionately called the 'bullpen.' Let's  
see. Who can I give this to so I can get some lunch?  
  
"Hey, you two," Welsh called when he saw Huey and  
Dewey come in. "Back from break now?" When they nodded affirmatively,  
Welsh continued, "Good. Go check this out," and handed his  
notes to Dewey.  
 **  
**Huey glanced at them over Tom's shoulder. "OK, boss,  
we're on our way."  
  
As they left the squad room, they almost bumped into Fraser,  
who for once, did not hold the door open. "Oh, sorry," Fraser  
said absentmindedly to them as they brushed past.  
  
Francesca saw him right away. Of course, she had ample notification  
from Diefenbaker. The wolf always came to her first. Fraser was unaware  
that she had a secret stash of Cheese Doodles in the desk. She quickly  
slipped a handful to her favorite wolf and then joined Fraser as he walked  
into the bullpen.  
  
She took his arm and said, "Fraser! You know about color.  
What do you think?"  
  
"About what?" Fraser stopped to face her.  
  
"The color," she replied as she tilted her head up  
to him and ran her tongue over her lips to gloss up the lipstick. Frannie,  
you're a shameless flirt, she thought to herself.  
  
"Colour?"  
  
"Yeah, the color. See?" For emphasis Francesca  
raised her hands to her face to show the matching nail polish.  
  
"Ah...."  
  
"All you can say is 'Ah?' You _know_ you drive  
me crazy with all your 'Ahs.' Do you think it goes with this Civilian  
Aid blue?" She pointed to the blouse she was wearing. "I've  
got to do something to jazz up these disgusting, dull rags they make  
me wear. I have problems with uniforms. They're so...regulation."  
  
Fraser tried to concentrate. "Since red and blue are  
primary colours, they do compliment each other," he answered faintly.  
He scanned the personnel in the bullpen. "Would you excuse me,  
Francesca? I have to talk to Ray."  
  
He walked over to cubicle 7C where Stanley Ray Kowalski was  
killing time by playing with a cheap toy at his desk. Damn! I almost  
had it, he thought, as he lost again. He glanced up as the Mountie approached.  
  
"How's it going, Frase?"  
  
"I'm not sure," Fraser puzzled and scratched his  
left eyebrow.  
  
"Not sure? Since when have you not been sure about anything?  
Your infestation bothering you again?"  
 **  
**"Infestation?"  
  
"Yeah, those eyebrow mites or whatever you keep goin' after."  
  
"Ray, I assure you that I'm not infested. It's just a  
mannerism I have when I am preoccupied or not in my Zen state of serenity."  
  
"So, what's the problem?"  
  
"Well, it's odd," Fraser began slowly. "No,  
not exactly odd, but perhaps a little unusual that--"  
  
"Fraser! Spit it out!!"  
  
"Inspector Thatcher always comes to the Consulate by oh-nine-hundred."  
He reached his hand up for another go-round with his eyebrow, but caught  
himself. "Sorry....In any event, she hasn't come in yet today.  
Not that she is so anal retentive that she always sticks to her schedule  
and allows no deviation from--"  
  
"Oh, for God's sake," Ray interjected with exasperation.  
"What's your point?" **  
**  
"My point is that she always has told me if she thought  
she was going to be late...Maybe not _why_ she would belate...But  
that's another story. And then I had the strangest dream last night....."  
  
Kowalski had been only partially listening until then. As  
Fraser droned on, he walked over to him.  
  
"....I must have been in deep REM sleep... you know?"  
  
Ray nodded an ambivalent 'yes' and 'no.' What-the- _hell_  
is this guy talking about? Logical Fraser? Weird dreams? Looks like  
he may be losin' it. Needs to find his Zen thing-ey or whatever.  
  
"I can't remember exactly what the dream was about, but  
I distinctly heard the Inspector call out my name," Fraser continued  
until he saw Kowalski reach out to grab him by the shoulders. Fraser  
instinctively ducked the contact. "You're not going to hit me again,  
are you, Ray?" **  
**  
"Instincts, Fraser! You're not listening to your instincts.  
Ever dream about her other times?"  
  
"No...Well, that's not entirely true," Fraser began  
to equivocate. "Once in a dream she was on this horse and...Ray,  
I really don't want to go there."  
  
"I bet you don't."  
  
"However, last night, when I heard her call, I did get  
up and look around the Consulate, but everyone had gone home. It was  
quite late. She wasn't there...."  
  
"Of course not! She's somewhere else and she _called_ **  
**to you. That's _instinct_ , Fraser! Kick that logical brain of  
yours into overdrive. The Ice Queen calls to you in a dream, obviously  
needing you for something. Then she doesn't show up for work today. What's  
the picture here?"  
  
"Oh, dear! Do you really think she's in a predicament?  
I can't imagine she would be in a situation she can't handle...She's  
so resourceful. But her voice was so clear in the dream. Ray, it-woke-me-up."  
The Mountie turned and started to wander out of the squad room. "Something  
may have happened to her," he mumbled to himself.  
  
"Fraser? Where are you going?"  
  
"Back to the Consulate to check her daily schedule. Perhaps  
she wrote down where she was going last night."  
  
"OK, let's go." Kowalski grabbed his coat. "Dief!  
Come on!"  
  
Dief followed Fraser and Ray down the hall but stopped and  
whined when Fraser turned left and Kowalski went right. Ray looked back.  
"Fraser...Fraser......FRASER! _This_ way!"  
  
  
  
CHAPTER 4  
  
Turnbull was still at his desk and still laboring over a mountain  
of paperwork when the Mountie and Detective followed Diefenbaker into  
the Consulate.  
  
"Turnbull, has the Inspector come in yet?" Fraser  
demanded.  
  
"No, not yet. Is something wrong? Yikes! It's fourteen  
hundred hours," he exclaimed as he looked at the grandfather clock  
in the hall. "She's never this late. Good Lord! The Inspector--?"  
  
Fraser tried to placate him. Might have an anxiety disorder,  
he thought to himself. But with Turnbull, you never know. "Calm  
down. We don't know yet." He started toward Thatcher's office.  
"Where's her appointment book?"  
  
"Oh, Sir. I wouldn't look in her Schedule Book. That's  
her private affair." He reluctantly followed Fraser and Kowalski  
into Meg's office.  
  
Fraser quickly located her appointment book on the desk and  
opened it to check the appropriate pages. "Nothing here about last  
night...Just her Consular schedule yesterday. She may keep another personal  
planner at her place for off-duty activities. She's much too organized  
not to write things down."  
  
"Where does she live?" Kowalski asked.  
  
"Damn. I don't know. Turnbull, where are the personnel  
files? I have to get the Inspector's address."  
  
"Sir!" Turnbull nervously objected. "The Inspector  
will be very angry if she learns you have been in those--"  
  
Fraser calmed him down. "You don't have to worry about  
getting your own _gluteus maximus_ in a sling with the Inspector.  
I'll take full responsibility. It's more germane to find out where the  
Inspector was last night than be a stickler for protocol. Now, _where_  
are they?"  
  
"I don't think we should be doing this. Definitely not  
regulation," Turnbull grumbled as he led Fraser and Ray to a file  
cabinet in Thatcher's office.  
  
Fraser pulled open the top drawer labeled 'Personnel' and began  
scanning the folders by name. Each contained about 10 pages and had a  
top sheet with the employee's current data, fingerprints, and photo.  
When he got to his own file which by contrast was five centimeters thick  
and stuffed with papers, Fraser pulled it out and quickly fanned through  
it, speed reading.  
  
"My word, Sir!" Turnbull exclaimed in astonishment.  
  
"Yo, Fraser, you got quite a record. Lemme see,"  
Kowalski said as he reached for the file.  
  
"No, Ray, you can't see this. National security,"  
Fraser warned and kept it beyond Kowalski's reach. "However, I  
see it's accurate and up to date." He put his own file back and  
continued the search for Thatcher's. "That's odd. I don't see Inspector  
Thatcher's file here. It has to be somewhere. There must be _some_  
record of her residence."  
  
Fraser began to scan the room. "Some record."  
  
"Somewhere," added Ray.  
 **  
**"Wait a sec," interjected Turnbull. "I  
distinctly recall now that the Inspector mentioned there was a 'special  
file' somewhere. However, she made it quite clear it was to be opened  
only in dire emergency."  
  
"That's the ticket," Fraser encouraged. "Now,  
think, Turnbull. Did she say where this file is?"  
  
Turnbull thoughtfully cupped his face in his hand. "Let  
me see...No, I can't recall."  
  
"Think, man!" Kowalski's patience was thinning.  
  
"I'm trying...I'm trying!" Turnbull looked around  
the office and pointed to another file cabinet. "There! Maybe it's  
there."  
  
All three men went in lock-step to the file cabinet. Fraser  
tried to open it, but it was securely locked. **  
**  
Turnbull turned to Fraser. "Oh, heck. Do you think we  
ought to break it open? But that would be damaging government  
property..." He saw Ray yanking on the immovable drawers. "Stop!  
I just remembered that the Inspector said the 'special file' was locked  
up and that the key is in her desk."  
  
They lock-stepped back to Thatcher's desk. Fraser slid open  
the center pencil drawer, picked up a single key, and all moved as one  
back to the locked cabinet. Fraser tried the key. It opened. _  
_  
"Sort of like d�j� vu all over again, huh, Fraser?  
We're on another treasure hunt!" exclaimed Ray.  
  
"Something like that," Fraser replied as he quickly  
scanned the contents of the top two drawers. When he opened the third,  
the only thing in it was Thatcher's personnel file. It was as equally  
thick as Fraser's. He picked it up.  
 **  
**"The mother lode, right, Fraser?"  
  
"My word, she's been active, hasn't she, Sir?"  
  
"Apparently," mused Fraser as he opened it to the  
face page.  
  
"Come on, Fraser. See what's inside. You read yours. How  
about a quick peek at hers?"  
  
"We're not on a scavenger hunt here, Ray. Just trying  
to find out the Inspector's address. Anything else would be an invasion  
of her privacy." Fraser pointed to Thatcher's photograph. "It  
is a good likeness of her, though, don't you think? Ah, here it is.  
She lives in one of those high rise condominiums on Lake Shore Drive.  
Saddle up, Ray. "  
  
  
CHAPTER 5  
  
Ray was getting exasperated, as he and Fraser stood in the  
middle of the condo lobby and tried to convince the building manager  
to give them access to Thatcher's unit. "So, what you're saying  
is that you won't let us in?"  
  
"Of course not," the manager stated in his most official  
sounding voice. "Our tenants pay a high price to maintain their  
privacy."  
  
"Sir, it is extremely important," Fraser urged.  
  
" _Nothing_ is that important!"  
 **  
**Hoping to convince him, Fraser ventured, "She is  
an Inspector with the RCMP and--"  
  
"The _what_?" _  
_  
"She's Canadian, you knuckle head...A Mountie...With the  
Canadian Consulate," Kowalski retorted. This pompous ass was really  
starting to piss him off.  
  
"And she didn't come to work this morning," Fraser  
added. The pompous ass was starting to piss him off, too, as if he already  
didn't have enough on his mind.  
  
"Yeah, and there is a missing person bulletin out on her,"  
Ray said.  
  
"Oh, really? And who filed that?" the manager sneered.  
  
Fraser and Kowalski exchanged glances. "He did,"  
they said in unison as they pointed to each other.  
  
"Do you want to be mixed up in some sort of international  
incident? Just because you want to stick to your piss-ant rules - whatever  
they are? Does this mean anything?" Kowalski flashed his  
badge.  
  
The manager knew he was beaten. "OK, OK. Come on."  
  
"Thank you kindly," Fraser offered as they stepped  
into the elevator.  
  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
The manager swung the door inward to allow Fraser and Kowalski  
entrance. "So, don't touch anything," he admonished as they  
brushed past.  
  
"Yeah, sure. Like we got a moving van pulled up in back  
and are just waiting to cart all this crap off," Ray said as he  
closed the door in the manager's face.  
  
The two police officers paused to assess the situation:  
hardwood floors, a soft leather sofa grouping in front of the fireplace,  
teak tables and bookshelves, a number of carved Haida and Tlingit masks  
on a wall, a grand piano with numerous sheets of music on it was in the  
corner. The spacious living room had large picture windows that afforded  
a spectacular view of Lake Michigan from the 17th floor. With studied  
casual elegance it had a sleek but comfortable feel about it.  
  
As Kowalski advanced into the living room, Fraser motioned  
toward a hallway that obviously led tothe bedroom area. "I'll  
check in here," the Mountie offered.  
  
"Right. You do that, Fraser," Ray answered with a  
hint of sarcasm. _  
  
_Fraser admired the Native art work displayed on the walls  
as he made his way to her bedroom. He entered and saw a pair of off-black  
stockings, an elegant embroidered slip, and a black silk cocktail dress  
with spaghetti straps strewn on the bed. He heard Ray picking out a  
few notes of _Heart and Soul_ on the living room piano. Wincing  
with each clinker Ray played, Fraser went to the walk-in closet that  
was open. One wall was filled with casual clothes: sweaters (each in  
their individual container), slacks, and blazers. The opposite side  
contained her shoe collection and formal wear. He picked up the sleeve  
of a red silk suit and inhaled it deeply, then saw several red serge  
uniforms on the third wall, along with some outfits he recognized from  
her wearing them at the Consulate. He sleeve-smelled several of these  
clothes and murmured, "Yes, she _does_ live here."  
  
Moving over to the king-sized bed, the Mountie smoothed his  
hand across the brocade bedspread and picked up the petticoat, deeply  
inhaled her scent, and absentmindedly carried it around as he looked  
at the rest of the room. He finally ended up at her desk. When he saw  
two leather books, he laid the slip down to pick up the top book since  
a corner of a photograph sticking out caught his attention. He opened  
it up to see it was a picture of himself in uniform: a duplicate of the  
one in his personnel file. Puzzled by the photo, Fraser began reading:  
  
"...and how I admire his intelligence, his incredible abilities  
to solve cases. It all seems so easy for him. I walk such a thin line.  
Trying to stay a step ahead of him as his superior -- but with far fewer  
skills and even less courage. Why?? What am I afraid of? I just couldn't  
go through with it when I asked him to become involved with 'having a  
child.' Is he pretending he doesn't hear my messages? Or is  
he  
just not interested?...."  
  
"Oh, God," Fraser agonized aloud.  
  
"....What does he do in his personal life -- go to  
a sperm bank? I've never even seen him break  
out into a hint of a sweat. Would I dare to get  
personally involved with him? Damn these  
rules and regulations! And damn Martin in  
Calgary!! Imponderable questions..no answers...."  
  
  
"Nothing out there. Have you found anything?" Ray  
said as he came into the bedroom.  
  
Startled, Fraser quickly put the journal down but it remained  
open to the page he was reading and his picture landed beside the journal,  
not in it. To cover his reaction to Meg's diary writings, he picked up  
the slip he had laid on the desk and said, "Ah...er...I'm still  
looking."  
 **  
**"Whoa, Fraser. Who's on the scavenger hunt now?  
I heard about you in drag at that Catholic girls' school. Grazing for  
new clothes? Think they'll fit?"  
  
"This? Er...I'm not doing anything. Ah, here it is!"  
Fraser exclaimed as he dropped the slip back onto the desk and picked  
up the matching leather daytimer to check the date. "She  
was doing some sort of benefit at the Repertoire Theatre. It says 'Twenty-one  
hundred hours.' Where is this place?"  
 **  
**"Come on, it's not too far from here." ** _  
_**  
  
CHAPTER 6  
  
As Fraser, Kowalski, and Dief walked down the hall of the Theater,  
they heard loud voices and saw three people arguing in the business office.  
  
"So, what did you want me to do?" said a thirtyish  
woman dressed in a tie-dyed shirt liberally adorned with strings of beads,  
faded jeans, and long dangling earrings.  
  
"Jasmine," replied another woman in a business suit,  
"we didn't really expect you to _do_ anything, did we Earl?"  
  
Earl thoughtfully stroked his chin. "No, Alice is right,  
Jas. You weren't responsible for security around here. If anyone was,  
it should've been me, since I do the books for the Theater."  
  
Diefenbaker began his own smell investigation of the room as  
the police officers interrupted the theater staff discussion. Kowalski  
showed his badge and said, "Chicago PD. What's going on here?"  
  
"We were robbed last night," Jasmine replied with  
some exasperation.  
  
"I called it in this morning," Alice explained.   
"Two detectives already have been here. When the Captain...or maybe  
he was a Colonel or Major or something, of the police station said that  
he would send a couple of Chicago's finest detectives over to investigate,  
he didn't say he was going to send _two_ sets of detectives." **  
**  
"Chicago's finest? What precinct is _that_?"  
Ray asked himself under his breath. "Who were they? They leave  
their--?"  
  
Alice interrupted him, "--Business card? Yes, here it  
is," and gave it to Kowalski.  
  
Ray glanced at the card and turned in wonderment to Fraser.  
"Huey and Dewey? Chicago's finest?? How the hell did the Ducks  
get assigned to this case?"  
  
"I don't know, Ray," Fraser said absentmindedly,  
as he was concentrating on picking up clues. He turned to survey the  
office and began a visual, walk-through assessment of the room while  
Kowalski continued the interview. **  
**  
"I'll catch up with them later to get your statements,"  
Ray told the staff. "What all did they do while they were here?"  
  
"Dusted for prints. Took ours, too," Earl volunteered.  
  
"So, who was here last night? You were puttin' on some  
kind of benefit?" Kowalski continued.  
  
"We had many people donating--" Alice offered.  
  
"--Was Margaret Thatcher one of them?"  
  
"Yes, I think--" Alice began but was interrupted  
this time by Fraser who had finished his walk-through assessment.  
 **  
**"--Ray, the Inspector _was_ in here," the  
Mountie stated with agitation. "And something happened to her.  
I can feel it...I can smell it."  
  
"OK, OK, Fraser. Keep your lid on. I'll call the precinct  
to see if they've gotten any ID on the prints yet. Just cool it,"  
Ray said as he began dialing the precinct number on his cell phone.   
"Lemme talk to either Huey or Dewey. No, Francesca, don't put me  
on hold. OK.... ...Huey! I'm at the Theater with Fraser...Yeah, I  
know it's your case. Do you have any results on the fingerprints yet?"  
  
"If it's our case, why do you want to know?" Huey  
retorted. This 'Ray' replacement is a pushy son of a bitch sometimes,  
he thought.  
  
"Because Fraser's boss is missing and we found out that  
she was here last night."  
  
"When we interviewed the staff, they didn't mention that."  
  
"Well, Fraser is sure she was here in the office. Might  
have interrupted the robbery and--"  
  
Huey looked up to see Dewey come into the bullpen. "--Just  
a sec. Here's Dewey with the results of the print check. I'll put you  
on speaker." Pointing to the speaker phone, he called to Dewey,  
"Ray's at the theater. Thatcher's missing. Fraser thinks she was  
in the office. Tell him."  
  
Welsh walked by on his way to his office, stopped and listened  
in on the rest of the phone conversation.  
  
"Ray? That you?" Dewey began. "The prints all  
check out for the staff. The freshest set of prints on the safe are  
of a Bobby Solvay. He's a part-time go-fer at the theater--"  
  
Kowalski listened to that much of Dewey's report and then asked  
the theater staff, "You know anything about Bobby Solvay?"  
When they shook their heads 'no', he pressed them further, "Would  
there be any reason for this broom pusher to be here in the office?"  
  
"No reason at all. He did some work on the scenery,"  
Jasmine answered.  
  
"Bingo," Kowalski said and then asked Dewey over  
the phone, "Who is this guy?"  
  
"Has a fairly long rap sheet for car theft and petty robbery.  
Currently on parole."  
  
Fraser moved over next to Ray and listened intently to both  
sides of the conversation as Kowalski continued with Dewey. "Any  
other prints?"  
  
"One complete right hand set on the paperweight, still  
unidentified."  
  
"Ask them where they found it," Fraser urged.  
  
"You hear that?" Kowalski asked the detectives.  
  
"It was on the floor by that desk in the corner,"  
Huey replied.  
  
Frowning and pulling on his earlobe, Fraser ventured, "She's  
played women's softball; I remember that much. Probably used the paperweight  
to try and hit him."  
  
"Thatcher?" Welsh queried while he listened to the  
phone conversation.  
  
"Is that you, Leftenant?"  
  
"Yeah. What's up?"  
  
"Well, the Inspector evidently was here during the theft  
last night, but she didn't come to the Consulate this morning. I don't  
know where she is."  
  
"Missing? Come on, people," Welsh exhorted his troops,  
"get on this one!"  
  
Fraser turned to Kowalski, "Ray, let me call the Consulate  
and have her fingerprints faxed over. Shouldn't take more than five  
minutes."  
  
"Sure.....Huey? Fraser's gonna have Thatcher's prints  
sent over. See if they match the paperweight."  
  
Fraser dialed the Consulate. "Turnbull?...No, we haven't  
found her yet. Now listen closely. I want you to get the Inspector's  
file and... Turnbull! Just go back, get her file and fax her fingerprints  
to the police station...Do it _now_ , Turnbull."  
  
As he handed the cell phone back to Ray, "That man is  
thicker than two short boards," Fraser muttered in exasperation.  
"Now, about this paperweight," he asked the staff, "before  
today, where was it?"  
  
"It's mine," Alice said. "I kept it on my desk  
over there."  
  
"Like that?" Fraser said as he placed it on the indicated  
desk.  
  
Alice replied, "No, it was more in the corner, like this,"  
and moved it to another position.  
  
"Thank you kindly." Fraser began a complete and sequential  
reenactment of Meg's scuffle with Solvay. He started smelling and tasting  
the door as Kowalski continued the questioning.  
  
"So, when did you hire Solvay?" Ray asked and tried  
to ignore Fraser licking a file cabinet.  
  
"Couple of weeks ago," Alice answered, as her lip  
began to curl involuntarily when she saw Fraser running his tongue over  
a wall. "He just showed up and asked for a job."  
  
"You didn't advertise for the opening?"  
  
"Oh, that's _so_ gross!" Jasmine could not  
contain her disgust when she saw the Mountie lick his way across the  
desk where Thatcher's arm had slid.  
  
"Yeah, he does a lot of Gross stuff...Can't help it...He's  
Canadian. So, what's you pay schedule like? Did Solvay fill out a W-2  
form?"  
  
"Yes, he did," Earl, the efficient CPA, answered.  
"I'll get it for you." **  
**  
Meanwhile, Fraser had picked up the paperweight from Alice's  
desk and sighted it from where he 'saw' Thatcher throw it to where it  
was found under the desk in the corner. He shook his head negatively  
when he realized it was not a straight line. As he was working out the  
geometry of the deflection, he bumped into Earl who was retrieving Solvay's  
W-2 form from a file cabinet. "Oh, sorry. Excuse me," the  
Mountie automatically said but remained in deep concentration.  
  
Kowalski grabbed the W-2 form and scanned it quickly. "Says  
here he lives at the Northridge Towers. Do you know about that place?  
It's one of those upscale yuppie apartments. He couldn't have afforded  
a day's worth of rent at this place on the minimum wage you were paying  
him.  
  
"I had no idea," Earl replied with dismay.  
  
Ray was disgusted. "This is _so_ phony." He  
looked up to see only Fraser's rear-end stuck up in the air, since the  
Mountie was completing his investigation of the floor on his hands and  
knees by reaching under a desk. "Fraser! Mooning is so unMountie-like."  
 **  
**Fraser jumped back to his feet and rejoined the group.  
"Do any of you remember what Inspector Thatcher was wearing last  
night?" he asked the Theater staff.  
  
Despite her hippie attire, Jasmine was something of a clothes  
hound and always made a point of noticing how others were dressed. "Sure.  
She had a medium shade of pink dress on. It was organdy...No, check  
that. It looked too soft for organdy. Must have been chiffon. Knee  
length. Sleeveless, with a jewel neckline. Then she had a matching  
scarf wound around her neck and the free ends hung down her back to the  
hem."  
  
"Any decoration? Beads or sequins?" Fraser persisted.  
  
"The only jewelry she had on were pearl earring studs.  
But I remember that the scarf had sequins on the ends."  
  
"Like this?" Fraser opened his hand to show the sequins  
he had found under the desk.  
  
"Oh, yeah, that's it," Jasmine said as Kowalski's  
cell phone rang.  
  
"OK," Ray spoke into the phone. He disconnected  
and addressed Fraser. "Print confirmation - they're Thatcher's."  
  
"I know. She was here during the robbery and tried to  
stop him."  
  
"You mean she wasn't able to put up a good defense and  
stop him? How do you _know_ all this?"  
  
"Freshness of the odour," the Mountie said automatically.  
"It has a definitive half-life and--"  
  
"--It's OK, Fraser, you don't have to explain it. I'll  
take your word for it."  
  
"What's important now is she was somehow overpowered and  
taken hostage," Fraser said with great concern. "The trail  
goes here...." He was lost in concentration as he smelled his way  
out into the hallway.  
  
Ray shook his head in puzzlement. He thanked the staff for  
their information, then saw that Fraser was so preoccupied with following  
Thatcher's odor that he had forgotten his Stetson. Half-life? he thought  
as he picked up the hat. Does the Ice Queen have a scent? How can anything  
frozen harder than a carp smell? Nah!  
  
When Kowalski and Diefenbaker reached the back alley where  
Solvay had parked the getaway car, Fraser already was surveying the area.  
He noticed the residue from Solvay's car backfire and quickly threw himself  
on the pavement to taste it directly.  
  
"Oh shit, Fraser! I'm going to hurl. That is so completely  
disgusting. Do you eat with that mouth, too?"  
  
Ignoring Ray's criticism, the Mountie got back to his feet.  
"He brought her here...See? Here's another sequin. She's good.  
Very good."  
  
"So why clean the streets with your tongue? We got a department  
of sanitation to do that."  
  
"Because if we have any hope of finding her, we need a  
trail. Sequins alone may not be enough....His car uses leaded gas."  
He began walking slowly in the direction the getaway car took. "Not  
too many of them around anymore. And it is poorly tuned.. ..probably  
running on 3 cylinders. The emissions here are the engine's unique combustion  
signature: the unburned hydrocarbons and various lead compounds. And  
that one cylinder not working makes it that much more unusual."  
He glanced at Kowalski. "The trail is as clear as the strobe light  
guide path at O'Hare International."  
  
"So, do it. I'll get the car.  
  
  
CHAPTER 7  
  
In the darkness as Fraser and Dief tracked up to the warehouse,  
Ray followed in the squad car. Fraser motioned that 'this is the place.'  
Ray nodded and hand signaled back that he would park the car. Fraser  
continued on toward a doorway and was deeply inhaling the air sifting  
out of the door jamb when Kowalski joined him.  
  
"She's in there, Fraser whispered. "Fresh scent.  
Did you see the car?"  
  
Ray cast him a quizzical side-long glance. "Don't know  
what it looks like. Can you tell its color or make by the exhaust trail  
it left? Or did you just bounce a reality check?"  
  
Fraser mulled this over for a moment. "Right you are.  
We have no way of knowing that."  
  
This place is pretty deserted," Kowalski continued as  
he scanned the area, "but there're a couple of cars around. He  
may have parked it in back."  
  
"So we don't know if Solvay is still in there...Or what  
condition the Inspector is in. Does his rap sheet include any assault?"  
  
"The Ducks didn't say....only mentioned car theft and  
robbery."  
  
"Well, t-take Dief and go around b-back. I'm going in,"  
Fraser stuttered.  
  
Ray gave the Mountie a hard look. "You OK, Frase?"  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"You're sorta up tight. Take a chill pill. We'll find  
her." Kowalski motioned Diefenbaker to follow and with his gun  
drawn, the detective disappeared into the mist as he rounded the corner  
of the building.  
  
Fraser cautiously opened the door and entered. As he crept  
through a warren of dark rooms and storage areas, he continued to pick  
up faint odours of the Inspector. Please God, he thought, let her be  
OK...Don't let that son of a bitch Solvay hurt her....She doesn't deserve  
that. If he's raped her, I swear I'll castrate him with a dull hunting  
knife.  
  
He stopped and sniffed the air. Dammit, I'm losing my touch,  
he chided himself. Come on, Benton, concentrate! Just find her first.  
You can deal with Solvay later. He had to retrace his steps back to  
a hallway where he last smelled her scent. He picked up the trail again  
and headed in a new direction.  
  
Eventually he began to hear faint muffled sounds coming from  
a large room ahead. He cautiously slid through the doorway and in the  
faint light saw Thatcher across the room. Although she still was strung  
up, she struggled furiously to release her wrists.  
  
The Mountie looked around to check if Solvay was still there.  
Not seeing him, Fraser called in a loud whisper, "Inspector?"  
  
"Oh, thank God!" Meg sobbed when she saw him.  
  
Fraser ran over to her and pulled out his boot knife. "Here,  
hold still. I'll cut you down. Steady...." Face to face, he pressed  
his body against hers. Putting his left arm around her waist to stop  
her swinging motion, he reached up with his right hand to cut the rope  
at her wrists.  
  
"What has he done to you?" he demanded as she, with  
the release, almost slid through his arms. He caught her and lowered  
her to the floor.  
  
"I'm so c-c-cold," Meg cried. She was shaking uncontrollably.  
  
Fraser stood up and with the Inspector clinging to his thigh,  
he ripped off his lanyard and Sam Browne and tossed them aside. Buttons  
flew in every direction as he tore off the red tunic. "Here, put  
this on," he offered as he draped it over her shoulders. He slid  
to the floor behind her and enveloped her in his arms.  
  
"You're safe now," Fraser reassured her as he bent  
his head down to her ear. "Are you hurt? Did he do anything to  
you?"  
  
Seeking warmth, Meg burrowed her back deeper into his chest.  
"N-n-no, nothing like that," she chattered. "Just t-t-tied  
me up. What t-t-took you so long?"  
  
"I didn't know where you were. How clever to lay the sequin  
trail. You're so brave."  
  
"N-n-not so brave as I s-s-should have been."  
  
Tears formed mascara-stained rivers that coursed through the  
dirt on her face and dripped onto his tunic. I can't let him see me  
like this, Meg thought in desperation. The more she tried to get in control,  
the harder she sobbed.  
  
Fraser was increasingly concerned. In an effort to calm her,  
he began smoothing her hair and gently turned her head to him so he could  
wipe her tears away with his fingers. As he worked on one side, she  
used the edge of the tunic on the other. "It's all right, now,"  
he murmured. "You sure you're OK?"  
  
Meg nodded, "Uh-huh," as her sobs quieted into sniffles.  
  
As her tears slowed to a trickle, he saw the rope burns on  
her wrist. Frowning, he raised her hand to bring the inside of her  
wrist closer, almost allowing his lips to brush across the burns as he  
examined them. Like hell you're OK, he thought in consternation. Oh,  
Meg, what did the bastard do to you?  
  
He glanced at her. She had turned sideways in his arms. With  
her head tilted up to him, she seemed so receptive to having him kiss  
her. As their eyes met, Fraser was drawn imperceptibly toward her mouth.  
  
"Not now, son," his father's voice reverberated in  
his head. "Don't do it. She's too vulnerable. Think of what she  
has just been through. Oh, I know she wrote that she wants you...bad.  
She's a good intellectual match for you, but if you take advantage of  
her when she's not on an equal emotional footing right now...Well, it's  
wrong, and you know it."  
  
Fraser gave a small sigh. Understood, Dad, he acknowledged  
with resignation. He gently laid Meg's head on his chest, wrapped his  
arms more tightly around her, and stared out into the empty room. And  
Meg, with her ear as close as possible, listened to his beating heart  
as the tears silently began to flow again.  
  
The mood was broken as both were startled by the loud report  
of several gunshots outside.  
  
"That must be Ray," Fraser explained. "He's  
out back. Did Solvay just leave?"  
  
"That's the rat's name?"  
  
"Yes. Come on," Fraser urged her to her feet.  
  
"He left me to hang here, just before you came in."  
Thatcher was still weak and wobbly as Fraser held her hand, but she stopped  
to pick up his Sam Browne and lanyard.  
  
"Inspector, it's only a uniform. Come on!"  
  
"Oh, all right! Screw the buttons," she said and  
followed Fraser who headed back the same way he came in.  
  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Fraser burst out the front door with Thatcher close behind.  
However, she lagged behind more and more as Fraser ran toward the end  
of the building, the way Ray had gone. He was within a meter of it when  
Solvay, speeding in the junker, rounded the corner and roared past the  
Mountie into the night.  
  
Fraser could not stop running quickly enough and reached the  
blind intersection at the moment Kowalski's squad car came careening  
around, in hot pursuit after Solvay. The Mountie was hit -- hard enough  
to spin him around and throw him into the brick wall of the warehouse.  
As his head hit with a sickening thud, he slumped to the ground.          
  
"Fraser!" Inspector Thatcher screamed. Grasping  
at the sleeves of his tunic she still had over her shoulders, she ran  
quickly to bend over the fallen Mountie. "Fraser! Fraser!! Oh,  
my God!! Ray! You hit him! Come back!!" she implored the rapidly  
disappearing car.  
  
"Oh, jeez!" Ray had difficulty keeping up. "What  
the hell was that? Fraser? Couldn't be....He was inside....Gotta get  
Solvay. He can't outrun me in that heap." He looked in the rearview  
mirror and saw Thatcher bending over Fraser.  
  
In the back seat, Diefenbaker was carrying on, racing from  
side to side, looking out the rear window and then at Kowalski, and barked  
continuously. "Fraser? Ohmigod, it _was_ him!"  
Dief nudged his neck, as if to confirm this.  
  
Ray looked ahead to rapidly fading red tail lights. "Solvay?"  
  
Diefenbaker looked back and barked furiously.  
  
Ray looked again into the rearview mirror. "Fraser?"  
  
The wolf dog nudged Kowalski's neck and woofed loudly in the  
detective's ear.  
  
Ray cringed and yelled, "Stop it, you damned dog!"  
as he slammed on the brakes, put the car in reverse, and screamed back  
to Fraser and Thatcher.  
  
As soon as Ray opened the car door, Dief muscled his way out  
ahead of him and ran to Fraser, who was lying face up on the ground.  
A pool of blood oozed from under the Mountie's head. Dief growled when  
he smelled it. He nuzzled Fraser to get up and licked his face. Meg,  
after covering him with the tunic, had been checking vital signs.  
  
"Stop, Diefenbaker! I don't know how badly he's hurt,"  
Thatcher ordered. She tried to fend the dog off.  
  
"Tell me I didn't kill him," Kowalski asked as he  
squatted down to join the Inspector.  
  
"He's still alive," Meg anxiously replied. "Has  
a nasty head wound...see all the blood? Must have hit the wall hard."  
  
Ray assessed the situation. "How about his neck?"  
  
"I don't know. He hasn't moved." She was beside  
herself with worry. Hang on, Benton, she agonized.  
  
"Oh, jeez! I'll call nine-one-one," he said as he  
dragged out his cell phone. "Wait a minute. He's moving his legs.  
Fraser!! Fray-zure! Wake up!"  
 **  
**Fraser groaned in his unconsciousness and started to move  
his legs more. His arms moved enough to brush off the tunic.  
  
"Look," Ray asked. "What do you want to do?  
It'll take the paramedics about ten minutes to get here. This is good  
if he has some kinda spinal injury. On the other hand, he _is_ moving--"  
  
"--and he might bleed to death with this head wound in  
the meantime," Meg finished.  
  
"Not so good. So, you call it: Nine-one-one or we take  
him in the car?"  
  
"Let's go. We should support his head as much as possible."  
  
While Ray lifted Fraser up by the armpits and dragged him over  
to the back door of the car, Thatcher picked up the tunic, lanyard, and  
Sam Browne. "Careful," she admonished as she opened the door  
for Ray and then went around to the other side. They had difficulty cramming  
Fraser in. His continual moaning was not encouraging. Thatcher tried  
to pull Fraser into the car and Ray tried pushing him in, but eventually  
he was stretched out on the back seat with his head in Meg's lap. Thatcher  
draped the tunic across him to keep him warm. As she cradled his head,  
she brushed away her tears that splashed onto his face.  
  
Ray called to Diefenbaker, who jumped into the front passenger  
seat but, seeing Fraser in the back, he tried to leap over. "No,  
Dief, stay here." Ray put his arm up to block the wolf.  
"You  
can't help now." The wolf rested his muzzle on the top of the seat,  
gazed at his wounded friend, and whined.  
  
Kowalski glanced in the rearview mirror as he started the ignition. _  
_"You OK back there?"  
  
Meg raised her tear-stained face. "Good, but he's still  
unconscious. Go! Go!!"  
  
  
CHAPTER 8  
  
The Inspector, coffee cup in hand, paced the floor. They always  
paint the walls such a puke green, she thought. And nothing worth reading  
except three year old _Readers Digest_ magazines. When do you suppose  
the cleaning crew comes on shift? Probably have to bring in a hose to  
scour the place out. She continued to walk the fifteen feet between  
the lobby door and the Emergency Room suite.  
  
"I can't imagine what's taking so long. They've been working  
on him for almost two hours," she fretted as she passed Kowalski  
more times than he could count.  
  
"They probably have to do a bunch of tests," Ray  
suggested as he rooted around in a pile of discarded wrappers from food  
vending machines. "Stuff like that. Relax. He's in good hands."  
He dove into the wrapper pile on the chair next to him and held up an  
unopened package. "I got DingDongs here. You want one?"  
  
"Couldn't stomach it. That junk food is terrible. And  
this coffee is worse." She threw the cup into an overflowing garbage  
container and resumed her pacing.  
  
Kowalski took up his own offer on the DingDong and observed  
Thatcher. She was a disaster: dirty, smeared make-up and her dress  
was heavily stained with Fraser's blood from when she had supported his  
head in her lap during the wild ride to the hospital.  
  
"Good God, woman! You're a mess. Is this your Jackie  
Kennedy impression?"  
  
"What??" She stopped and tried to comprehend what  
Ray meant. She didn't get it. "Oh, I don't care what I look like.....Finally!"  
she said with relief as she looked through the windows of the ER door.  
"Here's the doctor.....Doctor, How is he?" **  
  
**"Several things," the physician began as he joined  
the Inspector and Kowalski. "He regained consciousness shortly  
after you brought him in. We stitched up his head wound. You see, the  
scalp has a rich blood supply and, if the skin is broken, it looks like  
the person is hemorrhaging but it is not as life-threatening as it appears."  
  
"This is good. This is good," Ray commented. Despite  
his apparent nonchalance, he was more than a little concerned about Fraser,  
who had looked in tough shape. All Fraser's unconscious moaning and  
groaning on the way to the hospital had been unnerving. Even on a bad  
day, Fraser wouldn't have said 'Ouch' if someone was breakin' his arm,  
he thought. No use gettin' Thatcher more upset than she already was.  
What's up with those two? Fraser gettin' wigged out and then the control  
freak Turbo-bitch losin' it. Go figure.  
  
The doctor continued, "Since he regained consciousness,  
we did an MRI, tested his reflexes, and there is no spinal injury. So,  
while he was unconscious, his initial inertia can be explained by the  
blow to his head. The bad part is that he has had a severe concussion--"  
  
"Wouldn't be the first--" Ray confirmed. **  
  
**"--Furthermore, he exhibits Dissociative Amnesia."  
  
"So, what's this Dissoci-ta-tive thing-ey?"  
  
"Just shut up, Detective. Let him explain."  
  
"It's characterized by an inability to recall personal  
information. He may have dissociated due to a traumatic event or if he  
were under intense stress."  
  
"See," Kowalski pointed out to Meg, "I told  
you he was pretty wound up from the time we got to the theater until  
he found you in the warehouse."  
  
The physician shot Ray a hard look. "As I understand  
it, you hit him with your car?"  
  
"Uh, not exactly...I must have clipped him accidentally  
and it threw him into the wall...er...Yeah, I hit him," he finished  
sheepishly.  
  
Meg sensed how guilty Ray was feeling. "How could you  
have known he was coming?" she gently asked. **  
**  
"Well, regardless of how the accident occurred,"  
the doctor went on, "some of the symptoms of this type of amnesia  
are the loss of personal memory, of course, and depression, impairment  
at work or in interpersonal relationships, sometimes aggression, possibly  
sexual dysfunction."  
  
"So what you're saying is that he's clueless," Ray  
said. **  
**  
"Apparently."  
  
Thatcher was aghast. "Forever?"  
  
"Not necessarily," he assuaged her. "Often  
times, Dissociative Amnesia lifts spontaneously. We don't know what can  
trigger the return of memory in these types of cases."  
  
Meg persisted, "How long?"  
  
"Until it lifts? I wouldn't be concerned for two to three  
weeks. That will give the brain a chance to heal from the concussion."  
  
"I meant, how long will he be in hospital?"  
  
"Oh, I think if he stays the rest of tonight. And tomorrow.  
Barring any complications, he could be released the morning after that."  
  
The Inspector was greatly relieved. "Thank you so much,  
Doctor. Could we see him now?"  
  
"He is being transported up to Room Five-Seventy-Three.  
Give them a few moments to get him situated and then you can see him.  
Now, I want to warn you that apparently he's undergone a complete character  
change. The man you will see will not be as you know him."  
  
"Thank you again, Doctor," Meg called to the physician  
as he headed back into the ER.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Kowalski peeked in the door. "Fraser?"  
  
Thatcher pushed him the rest of the way into the room and over  
Ray's shoulder saw the Mountie, dressed in a hospital gown, sitting up  
in bed. The television was at full volume on an MTV type show and Fraser  
tried to sing along, but was not very successful.  
  
"Who're you? " Fraser asked Ray, as he concentrated  
on tapping out a rhythm on his thigh. "Wait a sec. I can't seem  
to get the beat on this song."  
  
"Fraser??" Ray reiterated as he reached over, grabbed  
the remote control out of Fraser's hand, and turned the television set  
off.  
  
"That's what they called me in the Emergency Room,"  
Fraser giggled. "Don't have a clue why....Fraser....Benton Fraser.  
Who would name a kid that? _Benton_?!" He began to chortle  
and laugh uncontrollably. "Ben - Ton. Sounds like Chinese soup...."  
  
Then he saw Meg standing behind Ray. "Who the hell are  
you?" he asked her. "My God you're a mess!"  
  
"Fraser, I'm Meg Thatcher. Don't you remember?"  
  
"Thatcher....Thresher," he scoffed. "Looks  
like you've been through a threshing machine," he giggled. "Ya  
know, if you cleaned yourself up, you might be able to get off the streets,"  
he leered at her, "if ya know what I mean," and winked suggestively.  
  
"Oh, Fraser." The Inspector's eyes began to tear  
up again. How could he say such things? "Don't you know me? Can't  
you  
remember the warehouse?...." She had never seen him like  
this -  
 _her_ Deputy Liaison Officer?  
  
A comely nurse, carrying a medication dispenser, came into  
the room. Fraser's eyes lit up. "Now here's a broad that knows  
how to take care of herself. Honey, when do you get off shift? Want  
to check out this mechanical bed for me?"  
  
"I don't think so. Just take this pill."  
  
"Your loss, darlin', " Fraser said when the nurse  
handed him a glass of water and the medication.  
  
As Fraser took the pill, Ray saw this as an opportunity to  
pull Thatcher aside. Good thing Thatcher didn't see _that_ , he  
thought, as he watched Fraser trying to catch the arm of the nurse and  
draw her to him. She deftly avoided the ploy and when she left, Fraser  
turned the TV back on.  
  
"Don't take it personally, Inspector. Fraser is really  
out of it, just like the doctor said."  
  
Dabbing her eyes, Meg agreed. "I know, I know. I just  
hate to see him like this. I think we had better leave."  
  
"What do you wanna do with him when he's released?"  
  
"I guess you could bring him to the Consulate. I'll have  
to check with Ottawa. They may want him sent back to Canada...He doesn't  
have any family, does he?"  
  
"Don't think so."  
  
"That's my point. If Ottawa wants him back, where would  
they put him? He hasn't anyone. Perhaps I can stave them off for two  
or three weeks so maybe his memory will be triggered....Keep him at the  
Consulate." She considered this option carefully. "OK, I  
suppose I should take his uniform back," and gathered up his trousers  
that had been laid over a chair, the folded long johns on the seat, and  
his Mountie boots standing at attention. "His hat and tunic are  
in your car. Can you give me a ride?"  
  
"Sure. I can do that."  
  
Having agreed on a plan of action, Thatcher and Kowalski turned  
back to Fraser. Ray again had to turn off the blasting TV. "OK,  
Fraser. We're going now."  
  
"You, too, Threshing Machine?"  
  
Meg started to say something but stopped. However, Kowalski  
noticed the hurt showing in her face and mercifully drew Fraser's attention  
away from her. "I'll be back tomorrow to see how you are doing."  
  
"Whatever. Hope you bring a better looking broad than  
this one," Fraser giggled as he reached for the TV remote when they  
left.  
  
  
  
CHAPTER 9  
  
The sunlight streamed in the window and spread over Fraser's  
hospital bed. Kowalski paced the floor, as he tried to explain the clues  
of the case.  
  
"So, I got the plate number of Solvay's getaway car.   
They're running a check now."  
  
"Getting away from what, Bob?" Fraser thoughtfully  
scratched the day-old stubble on his chin.  
  
"Ray," Kowalski corrected.  
  
"Bob? Ray? Bob and Ray?"  
  
"Getting away from me: _Ray_. He had taken Inspector  
Thatcher hostage. You tracked him--"  
  
"--Who's the Inspector? Thatcher? You mean Thresher! From  
last night."  
  
Ray was exasperated. "You really don't know anything  
about this, do you? Look-it. Even if you can't remember, you do understand  
about boss-flunky relationships, don't you?"  
  
"Yeah, I guess so," Fraser responded doubtfully.  
What the hell is this guy talking about?  
  
"Well, the Inspector is your boss. And she is a control  
freak...chain of command stuff."  
  
"OoooKay...."  
  
"So, if I were you, I'd lay off her. She's a time bomb  
with a short fuse."  
  
"Boom!" Fraser was delighted at his own joke.  
  
This was the last straw for Kowalski. "Oh, jeez. Maybe  
I should have just gone after Solvay and let Thatcher deal with you.  
I figured you would be able to help me catch him later. You're no help  
at all. I'm outta here."  
  
"Boom!!" Fraser called to him as he left.  
  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Kowalski was not in a good mood as he walked to the Nurses  
Station. There's no reasoning with that guy, he thought. No more logic,  
no more brains. Thatcher's gonna have her hands full, that's for sure.  
  
"Lemme use your phone," he brusquely asked a nurse  
who was trying to concentrate on charting amid the bustle of the Station. _  
_  
"Sure," she answered pleasantly. "Is this about  
that guy in Five-Seventy-Three?" Ray nodded as he began to dial.  
"He's supposed to be a Mountie?"  
  
"Supposed to be."  
  
"That horny creep can't keep his hands off the nurses.  
You know what he did this morning? He--"  
  
Ray didn't want to hear it. "--Hey, Huey! What's the  
skinny on Solvay's car?...Stolen? Why wasn't it reported stolen? ...Huh?  
...Of course it's a stupid question. Who would bother to report that  
piece of junk had been stolen? Stay on it."  
  
Uh-oh. Here comes trouble, he thought. He looked up to see  
Francesca swinging down the hall. Sashaying would have been a better  
word for it. She was wearing her infamous and incredibly short leather  
skirt. Didn't Welsh tell her to wear a longer shirt?  
  
"Look, gotta go. I'll be back to the station in a bit."  
Ray threw the phone towards its cradle and ran to intercept Francesca  
before she entered Fraser's room.  
  
"Frannie! I told you not to come."  
  
"Ray, Ray, Ray." Francesca could be so maddeningly  
condescending. "Fraser's my friend, too. If he's hurt and in the  
hospital, I want to see him--"  
  
"That's not Fraser in there."  
  
"How bad can it be? And besides, you're not my brother.  
You can't tell me what to do. Get out of my way." She pushed Kowalski  
aside and went in. Ray shrugged, threw up his hands, and walked down  
the hall.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Francesca tentatively peeked around the door to see Fraser  
lying in bed and staring vacantly at the ceiling. She had no way of  
knowing that he was counting holes in the ceiling tile and wanted to  
get an average. A good way to kill time between nurse visits.  
  
"Fraser?"  
  
"Huh?" Shit! I lost count, he fretted. Hello! Not  
a nurse, but a babe, none the less!  
  
"How're you doing, Frase? Ray said you were here."  
  
"I'm OK, I guess," he said cautiously. He didn't  
want to scare this one off. He opened out his arm to her and slowly  
wet his lips in anticipation. "Come here."  
  
Francesca quickly responded to his invitation. As she smoothed  
his hair away from his scalp sutures, "Some kinda nasty cut you  
have on your head. Does it hurt?" she asked innocently.  
  
"It used to, but it doesn't, today," he replied softly.  
  
When she began picking at imaginary lint on his hospital gown,  
he reached out, put his arm around her waist and pulled her down to sit,  
facing him, on the bed.  
  
"Ray said he almost killed you," she continued as  
she smoothed the sheets around him. He's coming on to me, she thought.  
  
"Would that make a difference to you?"  
  
"A difference? Of course it would!"  
  
"How?" Fraser closed his hand over hers.  
  
"Because I care." Her mind raced. He's actually  
holding my hand! Sweet Mother of God! Finally!! "We've been  
through a lot together. You've helped me..." She leaned toward  
him slightly. "....I've helped you."  
  
His eyes bored into hers. "Can you help me now?"  
He drew her to him.  
  
He pulled her down to his chest and began kissing her. Frannie  
was slightly taken off guard by his blatant advances: she certainly  
wasn't expecting _this_! Not that she minded, of course. She  
had dreamed of this for three long years. When he felt her hesitate  
slightly because of her surprise, he smoothly rolled her over onto her  
back to pin her shoulders to the bed. Much better, he thought. You  
can't resist now, my pretty bird, as Francesca willingly yielded to his  
tongue.  
  
He could feel her foot begin to stroke his leg through the  
sheet. "Who _are_ you?" he panted.  
  
Francesca was lost in a world of liquid ecstasy. "It  
doesn't matter, just kiss me," she murmured as she again drew him  
into her mouth.  
  
"FRASER!!"  
  
Meg Thatcher threw the civilian clothes she had brought for  
him in the general direction of the chair. His starched and ironed boxers  
flew through the air like a frisbie. "FRASER!!! What are you doing?"  
she demanded as she pried him off Francesca.  
  
"Ouch!" Frannie yelped when Thatcher grabbed her  
by the arm.  
  
"You slut," Meg hissed as she hauled her off the  
bed.  
  
"Oh, no! Don't take her away!" Fraser implored.   
Just when he was going to score, he thought in bewilderment.  
  
The Inspector was beside herself with rage. "Didn't they  
tell you he is not acting like himself?"  
  
"He seemed to understand everything we talked about--"  
Francesca tried to explain as she straightened her clothes.  
  
"--He doesn't understand anything. Just get out. Get  
out!!"  
  
"Well, _excuuuse_ me," Frannie retorted as she  
turned on her heel and left in a huff.  
  
Thatcher was livid as she turned on Fraser. "Well, that  
was quite a scene, wasn't it?"  
  
He was still trying to calm himself: Just when things were  
getting hot, this bitch walks in and spoils it. "Why did you make  
her leave? Because you're my boss?" He struggled to understand.  
  
"That much you got right." Meg made a monumental  
effort to keep the hurt from showing and look like she was in charge.  
"Look, Fraser. I've called Ottawa and--"  
  
"--Why do that? Who do you know there?"  
  
"Just listen. You are a Canadian...A Mountie. At least  
you * _were_ *. I called Headquarters and told them what happened.  
They wanted you sent back there as soon as you are discharged from hospital.  
They finally agreed to let you stay at the Consulate--"  
  
"--Consulate? What's a Consulate?" Fraser remained  
clueless.  
  
"The place where you work...You had come to Chicago on  
the trail of your father's killers--"  
  
Fraser was incredulous. "--My father is dead?"  
  
"Yes, and you have remained attached to the Consulate  
since then. My point is, there is a better chance of your memory being  
triggered if you stay in familiar surroundings. I'm the RCMP Inspector  
there, your superior."  
  
"Inspector _Thatch_ er."  
  
"At least you remembered that much." She was confused.  
If he could finally remember my name correctly, why couldn't he remember  
about the Consulate and all the other things, she thought. "Ray  
will be by tomorrow when you are discharged. I've brought you some clothes,"  
she continued as she gathered them up to put them on the chair. "He'll  
bring you to the Consulate. Do you understand?"  
  
"I'm beginning to."  
  
"I'll see you there," she called over her shoulder  
as she left the room with relief.  
  
  
  
CHAPTER 10  
  
  
"OK, people. Let's get moving." Welsh trotted around  
the bullpen. "The Inspector helped us find Ray and Fraser out in  
the middle of Lake Superior. We owe her....big time. I want to know  
everything about the bastard who abducted her: where he lives, where  
he hangs out, what he has for breakfast, how many sheets of toilet paper....you  
know the drill. He may still be in the area. Huey! What do you know  
about the stolen car?"  
  
"Not too much," the detective checked his notes.  
"It was stolen from a guy named Frank James."  
  
Welsh did a double take. "Now, _that's_ ironic,  
isn't it? And where does Frank James live?  
  
"South Chicago. I have his address here."  
  
"So get over there! Solvay may live in the area or be  
familiar with it, because that's where the car was. He may still be  
holed up somewhere."  
  
"I'm on it, Chief."  
  
"And find out if James was in on it," Welsh called  
to him as he hustled out of the squad room.  
  
Welsh tried to get a handle on the facts of the case. "You  
say he is on parole?" he grilled Dewey.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Anyone talk with his parole officer yet?"  
  
When Kowalski and Dewey shook their heads 'no,' Welsh exploded.  
"Has everyone's brain stopped working around here? Solvay gave a  
false address when he signed on at the theater. Ergo, he has been trying  
to dead-end us. He isn't as smart as he thinks he is. His parole officer's  
got his correct address. Dewey, pay P.O. Miller a visit."  
  
"Ah, Lieutenant? What do you want me to do?" Ray  
ventured.  
  
"For right now, keep on Fraser's ass. From what you tell  
me, the Inspector's gonna be hard put to keep Fraser's libido reined  
in. She could use some help.... Francesca!" he called. "Where  
the hell is she?"  
  
"Left her at the hospital. She insisted on seeing him."  
  
"Oh, for Christsakes! God help us all."  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
"....Yeah, you've been living here ever since that tenement  
you had rented burned down last fall," Kowalski explained as he  
followed Fraser into the Consulate.  
  
"Nothing looks familiar," Fraser remarked as he gazed  
around. He wore the clothes Meg had brought to the hospital the day  
before. The Levi's were bunched around his boot tops, but for some  
inexplicable reason the jeans had shrunk. Without a belt, they now rode  
low on his hips and stretched tightly across his thighs. One could wonder  
how he was able to pull them over the starched boxers. The plaid shirt,  
with the top two buttons open and the sleeves rolled up to the elbows,  
was casually stuffed into his Levi's. Still unshaven. Tousled hair  
completed the picture of Fraser: rugged and randy.  
  
Their entrance interrupted the quiet ticking of the grandfather  
clock in the hallway and Turnbull rose from his unending paperwork to  
say, "Ah, Sir! It's good to see you back."  
  
Hearing the commotion, Meg went to greet Fraser, as did Diefenbaker.  
The wolf was glad to see his friend on any terms but when Meg saw the  
'new' Fraser, she was not so sure.  
  
"Constable. There you are."  
  
"Inspector Thres...er...Thatcher," Fraser acknowledged.  
  
"Yes. Well, I imagine you want to refamiliarize yourself--"  
Meg began as she ushered him further into the hallway.  
  
"--Fraser, I'm going back to the station," Ray interrupted.  
He figured it was up to Thatcher from this point. "Call me if you  
need anything."  
  
Fraser nodded absentmindedly as he tried to concentrate on  
Meg's tour of the Consulate. "This is my office," she continued.  
"And our official greeter, Constable Turnbull.... " (who gave  
Fraser the 'thumbs up' signal) "...Our meeting room, "she gestured,  
"and the kitchen is back there."  
  
"What's upstairs?"  
  
"Bedrooms."  
  
Fraser's eyes lit up.  
  
Meg caught his look. "For visiting dignitaries,"  
she warned. "Your room is back here," she continued as she  
walked toward the back hallway. "Here we are..." She led  
Fraser into his tiny room. It was as he had left it three days ago,  
except for his soiled red tunic which she had hung on a hook by the door.  
  
"So, this is where I've been hanging out?"  
  
"You don't remember?"  
  
"I feel like I'm lost in space. Are you sure you're  
not some alien that has abducted me?" he teased her.  
  
"No, Constable." She was not used to him acting  
like this. So casual, so _un_ serious. She knew she had to remain  
firm and very professional with him. Keep him grounded. "Perhaps,  
given enough time, your memory may return. Go through your personal  
possessions here, such as they are. They might be triggers for you. **  
**Meanwhile, I have a lot of work to do. Feel free to come and ask,  
should you need anything."  
  
"I dunno. How can I know what I need if I don't know  
who I am?" he said to her retreating back as she left, shaking her  
head.  
  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Huey was not having much luck as he stood on the blustery corner  
of Cosenza and Menomonee. The wind whipped Solvay's mug shot from his  
hand. He chased after it and finally stepped on it to prevent its escape  
but had to pry it free of the discarded chewing gum on the sidewalk.  
  
A string of the gum remained attached to the paper as he held  
it up to a man passing by. "Hey, have you seen this guy around  
here?"  
  
"Nah, I ain't seen him," the man answered and quickly  
passed by.  
  
Another man walked past the detective who tried to stop him.  
"Sir! I'm trying to find this man. Have you seen him?"  
  
Hardly breaking stride, this passerby barely glanced at the  
mug shot before saying, "Sorry, can't say that I have," and  
continued on his way.  
  
What's with these people? Huey thought. Maybe it's my approach  
technique. I'll try the 'courteous' one on her, as he stopped a woman,  
carrying two shopping bags, who trundled along the sidewalk.  
  
"Pardon me, ma'am. I'm with the Police Department. We're  
working on a big case right now and I'm trying to find this man. Do  
you recognize him?"  
  
She set the shopping bags down to look at the photo closely.  
"No, I don't. Does he live around here?  
  
Huey was up-front with her. "We don't know, but he might."  
  
"Well, everyone in the neighborhood always goes to Charlie's  
diner for coffee and gossip. It's down one block on the left. You might  
try there."  
  
"Thank you, Ma'am, you've been a big help."  
  
  
  
CHAPTER 11  
  
TICK....TOCK....TICK....TOCK.... As the clock in the entry hall continued, Fraser began to  
look around his room by idly picking up a few things on his desk. Diefenbaker  
watched him carefully and whined each time Fraser shook his head 'no,  
I don't recognize this.' TICK....TOCK.... The Mountie eventually opened the closet door. Native chant  
music flooded the room. However, Fraser neither could hear it nor see  
that the back of the closet led into his father's 'office.' He examined  
his meager clothing, took out a plaid shirt out and held it up for assessment.  
TICK....TOCK....  
  
"What could I have been thinking of when I got this?   
Definitely not a babe magnet," he mused aloud. "Oh, the  
hell with it. I'm getting hungry," he decided. "What's the  
name of that dufus in the hallway? Turkey? Turnkey? Oh, yeah, Turnbull.  
I'll ask him."  
  
"So, what do you do for food around here?" Fraser  
asked as he approached Turnbull's hallway desk. TICK....TOCK....  
  
"Perhaps you should inquire of the Inspector." Turnbull  
came up for air from under his mountainous paper work to motion toward  
Thatcher's office.  
  
Fraser wandered in there to find her working intently at her  
lap top computer. Lounging in front of her desk, he tried to get her  
attention. "Er....."          
  
Continuing to work without looking up, "Yes?" she  
asked.  
  
"Er...well...." He hated this. Having to ask about  
something he should know about.  
  
"Yes, Constable?" Meg prodded as she looked up.   
At least he is beginning to _ask_ , instead of staying in his room  
all day, she thought.  
  
"I'm getting hungry. What's to eat?"  
  
Good God! Does he think I'm his housekeeper? "I showed  
you where the kitchen is. It's fully stocked. Go make yourself something.  
I've never been responsible for putting food on your table before and  
I'm not about to start."  
  
"OK, OK, I just wondered." Fraser backed off from  
her apparent anger. Instinctively he dropped his casual slouch and came  
to reasonable attention.  
  
"And by the way," Meg continued, "your wolf  
has refused all the food Constable Turnbull and I offered him while you  
were in hospital. Even Cheese Doodles. I understand that's his favourite.  
You had better feed him, also."  
  
"Uh-huh. I'll do that," Fraser said as he backed  
out the door.  
  
Thatcher returned to the lap top and silence descended again  
on the Consulate, save for the click of the lap top keys, Turnbull rustling  
his papers, and the louder TICK....TOCK....TICK....TOCK of the grandfather  
clock.  
  
Thatcher almost dumped the lap top onto the floor and Turnbull  
flinched to send a pile of papers off his desk when a loud explosion  
shattered the silence. She ran into the hallway to see Fraser coming  
out of the kitchen. His shirt was covered with whitish lumps.  
  
"Good God, Constable! What did you do?"  
  
"I was only trying to microwave some potatoes and--"  
  
"--Did you fork them first?"  
  
He gave her a quizzical look. "Fork them? Can you do  
that with potatoes?"  
  
"Yes, fork them," she tried to explain. "You  
know....stab them with a fork so they don't explode in the microwave."  
He really _is_ impossible. The kitchen must be a disaster. "Oh,  
just go clean the place up....Yourself included," she retorted as  
she went back to her office. "You're a mess."  
  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
  
"So, Miller is taking the day off?" Dewey flirted  
with the file clerk.  
  
"I don't think you could call it a vacation," she  
tentatively smiled at him. "He's having an impacted wisdom tooth  
pulled."  
  
Dewey winced. "Ouch. But can you get me Bobby Solvay's  
record anyway? I gotta find out where he lives. Big case at the 27th."  
  
"Sure can." She went to a nearby desk, rifled through  
some papers and brought back a heavy file. "Here it is."  
  
Dewey glanced through the file and took some notes. "Thanks  
a lot. I know that Miller will feel much better when you tell him Solvay's  
involved in a robbery and hostage situation. Looks like he will be back  
behind bars for a long time when we get him. Ciao!"  
  
  
CHAPTER 12  
  
  
TICK....TOCK....TICK....TOCK....As Thatcher worked at her desk,  
she glanced up as thuds and banging noises came from Fraser's room.   
Puzzled, she followed the sounds through the back hallway and pushed  
open his door. His room was a disaster and he was in the process of  
finishing it off: his cot was overturned, the desk chair upended, the  
desk had been swept clear, and all the storage boxes that had been piled  
high atop cabinets were broken and scattered about the floor.  
  
"Dammit!" Fraser had his back to the door and raged  
as he smashed another box.  
  
"Fraser?" Meg called tentatively.  
  
"God _damn_ it!!!"  
  
"Fraser?" she said more forcefully.  
  
"This friggin' room's a jail cell!" Fraser threw  
another box against the wall.  
  
"Constable! What _are_ you doing?" She was  
nonplused at his language; she never had heard him swear -- ever. **  
  
**He heard her this time and turned to face her with eyes  
blazing.  
  
"What?!!"  
  
"Get a hold of yourself....You're destroying government  
property."  
  
"I don't give a rat's ass! I can't stand it!!"  
  
"Fraser, you really can't behave like this," Meg  
said. She  
was becoming frightened of his behaviour. So violent.  
So angry. Nothing ever had seemed to bother him like this before now.  
She started to back out of the room. "Come on, get in control  
of yourself. Straighten this place up. You have to live here, you know."  
  
As Thatcher passed Constable Turnbull, he looked up to see  
the consternation on her face. He shook his head sadly. He had heard  
the exchange between the Inspector and Fraser and did not understand  
his behaviour either.  
  
She returned to her office to resume working. **TICK.... TOCK....TICK....TOCK** ,  
the clock inexorably ground on in the silence. Eventually, she heard  
more noises coming from Fraser's room: nothing like him trashing the  
place again, but softer, almost like something being torn or ripped.  
When it stopped, she continued on the keyboard. There it is again, she  
noted. More data entry. More intermittent tearing sounds interspersed  
with the **TICK....TOCK**.... of the hallway clock punctuated the  
silence.  
Meg laid her glasses down and listened closely. " _Now_  
what is he doing?" Her curiosity aroused, she went again to Fraser's  
room.  
  
Fraser had his feet casually propped up on his desk and was  
taping up the broken desk lamp with duct tape. All of the storage boxes  
he had thrown and smashed were taped back into shape and restacked.   
In fact, the entire room was a veritable patchwork of duct tape.  
  
Thatcher surveyed the scene with astonishment. "I couldn't  
identify the sound. I see you have repaired all the damage you caused."  
  
"I cleaned the place up like you asked," Fraser responded.  
"What I don't understand is why I'm getting such a kick out of this  
duct tape. You ever listen to the sound it makes when you pull it off  
the roll?"  
  
"Fraser, _all_ Canadians love duct tape. Carry on."  
  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
  
As they stood in the middle of a squalid room, Huey and Dewey  
tried to get information about Solvay from the tenement's superintendent  
 _[Red Green cameo role]_ , but were not having much success.  
  
"So you haven't seen much of him....?" Huey prodded.  
  
"Naw. 'Course, I never pay much attention," the Super  
explained as he scratched himself. "Too busy trying to keep things  
goin' around here....Look at this place," he added and swept his  
arm around the dingy room. "This ain't exactly the Ritz."  
  
"Solvay ever have anyone over? Any visitors?"  
  
"Don't think so. Sorta kept to himself, what I could  
notice. Look, I gotta unplug a drain. Poke around, if you want,"  
the Super offered as he left.  
  
The detectives made a cursory inspection: the closet contained  
only a rumpled shirt, the cheap bureau held a pair of socks, the kitchenette  
cupboards were bare of dishes, the refrigerator contained a half-empty  
bottle of ketchup and a cottage cheese container that emitted the rankest  
of odors, and the bathroom was devoid of toilet articles.  
  
The Ducks looked at each other. Dewey summed it up: "Another  
big negatory. Welsh ain't gonna like this."  
  
  
  
CHAPTER 13  
  
  
Silence reigned in the Consulate as Meg continued to work.  
TICK....TOCK....TICK....TOCK. She occasionally looked up and listened  
for any sound of Fraser. Hearing nothing, she returned to the lap top.  
After numerous rounds of attentive listening, she mused aloud, "This  
can't be good. He's got to be up to something," and went to investigate.  
TICK....TOCK.  
  
As Thatcher approached Fraser's room, she saw the door closed.  
She quietly opened it and there was Fraser, facing the wall, on his cot.  
He was curled into the fetal position with his top arm over his ear,  
hand behind his head. She saw that he was convulsed with sobs, as he  
writhed on his bed. A wave of tenderness and sadness coursed through  
her. Oh, Fraser, she silently agonized. My fallen Mountie. She hesitantly  
moved forward a step, but stopped. No, she decided, I can't go to him.  
If he ever gets his memory back, he would feel so ashamed that I saw  
him like this....Why is it that it's OK for women to cry but men have  
to maintain that stiff upper lip? He's always makes himself appear so  
strong....I know he has feelings, but he never shows them. TICK....TOCK.  
She backed out of the room and silently closed the door. Outside his  
room, Thatcher composed herself, took a breath and then tapped on the  
door.  
  
When Meg heard no answer, she tapped louder. "Fraser?  
Fraser?....May I come in?"  
  
She heard his muffled response, "Just a minute,"  
and waited patiently. He finally opened the door and appeared semi-composed,  
but Thatcher could see how puffy his eyes were, how emotionally ravaged  
he was. "Yeah, come on in," he said as he walked back into  
his room and turned to face her.  
  
"I just was wondering how you are doing," she ventured.  
  
"I'm fine, just fine."  
  
"And I wanted to tell you that I'll be leaving for the  
day." She looked at him closely. "Will you be all right?"  
  
"No problem."  
  
"Well, all right." There was not much more she could  
say; she had given him opportunity to talk. "Don't be too hard  
on yourself; it's your first day out of hospital. The doctor said these  
things take time."  
  
"Yeah, if I only had a brain."  
  
"Well, take care. I'll see you tomorrow."  
  
After Meg left, Fraser began to wander around his room again,  
handling various objects. **TICK....TOCK....TICK....  
TOCK.**  
It seemed the hallway clock was even louder. He finally picked up a  
volume of his father's diary and read:  
  
"....So, there I was, a hundred kilometers from anywhere. The black  
flies and mosquitoes in a feeding frenzy. I began to ask myself if it  
was worth it: 'Mounties always get their man.' What kind of motto is  
that? All I could think of was that Caroline was now dead. God, how  
I missed her. I missed her quiet laughter....how her face would light  
up when I came home...the way she..."  
  
"This poor son of a bitch sounds like he was in worse  
shape than I am," Fraser remarked.  
  
His father's ghost appeared beside him. "Son! I was  
just feeling a little sorry for myself." Fraser Senior pointed  
to a page in the diary, "See there? Your mother just died....."  
but Fraser could not see or hear him. He read a few more sentences and  
then threw it into the wastebasket.  
  
"Screw it," Fraser said, as he went to the closet  
for his leather jacket. Of course, while the door was open, he could  
not hear the chant music either. "This sucks. Come on, dog, let's  
go for a walk."  
  
His father called to him as he and Diefenbaker left, "Son!  
It's just as lonely out there as in here! You can be lonely anywhere,  
if you have a hole in your soul."  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Fraser and Dief walked a street in a seedy part of Chicago.  
Occasionally the Mountie peered into windows of bars to see the 'good  
times' people inside seemed to be having. He sadly moved on, having  
to step around winos surreptitiously drinking from brown paper bags.  
  
In the next block, two hookers watched his approach. The blonde  
nudged the brunette. Fraser could not hear what they were discussing,  
but each pointed to the other and finally the blonde nodded.  
  
"Hey, big boy! How's it goin'?" the blonde greeted  
him.  
  
Fraser was slightly nonplused as he stopped. "You talking  
to me?"  
  
"You bet!" Nice dog you got there," she remarked  
as Diefenbaker returned to Fraser's side and began to smell the hookers.  
He wagged his tail. Maybe some female companionship would cheer his  
friend up.  
  
The brunette was impressed with the blonde's pick-up technique.  
"You go, girl," she giggled.  
  
"Yeah, he seems real friendly," the blonde continued.  
  
"He wanted me to take him for a walk."  
  
"Wanted to have a good time, then?"  
  
"I think he just wanted to whizz."  
  
"You lookin' for a good time?" The blonde hooker  
moved closer to him. Her cheap perfume was almost overpowering.  
  
Fraser backed away. "What do you mean?"  
  
"You know, have a few drinks and stuff. My room is just  
around the corner there," she gestured. "You wanna come up?"  
  
"I guess so. I'm not doing anything else," Fraser  
agreed and then stood there looking at her. She continued to look at  
him. Diefenbaker wagged his tail harder. Finally, the blonde glanced  
to the other hooker to silently pass the message between them: 'What's  
up with this john?' They could not figure him out.  
  
"So?" Fraser inquired.  
  
"She's waiting for you to ask how much," the brunette  
coached.  
  
Fraser did not understand. "How much...?"  
  
"How much you got on you," the blonde said.  
  
"I dunno," Fraser replied as he patted the pockets  
of his jacket and Levi's. "I don't have any money...Say, what's  
this all about anyway?" He looked at her closely. "Are you  
trying to rob me?"  
  
The brunette cracked up. "Honey, what turnip truck did  
you fall out of?"  
  
The hookers began to laugh outright when Fraser said, "I  
don't remember any turnip truck. I was just taking my dog for a walk."  
  
"That's OK, honey, you just keep looking," the blonde  
responded between gasps of laughter. "When you find it, climb on  
and go back to Kansas."  
  
Fraser really was confused. "Kansas? Why are you talking  
in riddles?" Diefenbaker whined as the Mountie started to walk  
away and muttered to himself, "My brain is beginning to hurt.   
Dief, do you know what they...."  
  
  
  
CHAPTER 14  
  
  
Inspector Margaret Thatcher was surprised when she turned  
the door handle to the Consulate. It swung open easily. She looked  
elegant in the black dress with the spaghetti straps, the off-black stockings,  
and black heels as she stepped inside. "Why isn't the door locked?  
It's ten o'clock for heaven's sake!" The entry lights were on but  
all the offices were dark. She looked around as she approached Turnbull's  
desk. "Turnbull? Turnbull! Where are you?" she called.   
"As soon as that moron sees it's five o'clock, he vanishes,"  
she muttered. "I told him to stay and keep an eye on Fraser....Good  
Lord!...Fraser?" She quickly walked back to Fraser's room and continued  
to call his name but slowed up as she entered through the partially ajar  
door. She did not want to come in on him like he was the last time.  
  
"Fraser?...I thought he understood he was to stay here.  
He was in such a state," she ruminated as she began to look around  
his room. "Where could he have gone? Did he leave any clues?"  
  
She handled various objects on his desk and when she picked  
up a large canine tooth, she realized what it was and dropped it quickly.  
"I don't even want to know how he got _that_ ," she exclaimed  
in disgust.  
  
She continued to rummage around until she did a double take  
when she saw the diary Fraser had thrown in the wastebasket. She retrieved  
it and as she opened it, her back was to the door. "Oh, my God!  
This is his father's diary. Why would he throw...."  
  
Jacket in hand, Fraser noisily banged the door against the  
wall. Meg was startled, whirled around, and clasped the diary to her  
breast. Fraser frowned and hesitated at the sight of her in his room.  
He was still trying to figure out what those two women meant. Saying  
nothing, he dropped the jacket to the floor and slowly advanced on Meg.  
  
"Don't be angry, Fraser," Meg stammered. It looked  
like he was stalking her and this was frightening. "I thought you  
would be here....I decided to leave the reception early and come back  
to see how you were doing."  
  
He continued toward her with unwavering eyes. "Are you  
angry? Fraser...?" She felt like a doe caught in headlights and  
backed up as he not only reached her but invaded her personal space.  
  
"No, I'm not angry. I believe this is mine." He  
was so close to her that he took it from her trembling hands without  
extending his arms. Fraser quickly slid his arms around her and impulsively  
bent his head down to begin nuzzling her neck. Meg stood there shaking  
in fear and surprise as he inhaled her scent deeply several times.  
  
"What's that perfume you're wearing?" he murmured.  
  
This was the last thing she expected him to say. Gathering  
up her emotions, she could only reply, "The last time you asked  
me, I told you that I loathed perfume...I still do."  
  
"I think I remember that," he whispered as he inhaled.  
He dropped further down into the bodice of her dress.  
  
"Fraser!! What are you doing?" Meg mentally fought  
for control. She could feel his moist breath on her skin.  
  
"I'm looking for the hairpin...I recall I dropped it in  
here somewhere," his muffled voice answered between deep breaths.  
Before she could reply, Fraser came up for air with a look of comprehension  
on his face. "Ohmigod! I do remember! We were handcuffed together  
on that train. My sense of smell is returning!"  
  
He released her and brought his father's diary, which he had  
been holding, up to his nose. He deeply inhaled the cover and then opened  
it to various pages and smelled them also. "The man who wrote this  
was my father. Why would I throw it away?"  
  
She thought he was asking a direct question. "I don't  
kn......" but he prevented her from finishing her answer as he returned  
to her neck for another deep sniff.  
  
Fraser was so intent on rediscovering his extraordinary sense  
of smell that he virtually pushed himself away from Meg and turned to  
survey his room. He quickly began picking up random objects and inhaling  
their odour. "Yes"..."Uh-huh"... or ... "I  
remember that," he exclaimed with each thing he smelled. His movements  
were so quick that Meg was wordless as he came back to her neck for further  
inhales.  
  
When he smelled the tooth and with a grin on his face, his  
only comment was, "Oh, yes!" and returned to her neck. "It's  
your pheromones," he explained. "They're my trigger."  
  
He saw the Bay blankets on his cot and went over, picked one  
up and smelled it. "HBC--Yellowknife! And, Diefenbaker, despite  
my telling him not to, has been on my bed. He's a wolf, not a lap dog."  
  
"Half-wolf, Fraser--"  
  
"--Let me have another smell for reinforcement. I should  
have picked up on that," he said as he returned to her neck.  
  
Fraser continued to survey the room and saw his soiled tunic  
hanging by the door. He retrieved it and sniffed the spots of mascara  
and tears she left on it at the warehouse. As he returned to her, he  
tentatively licked the spots and shook his head, 'No,' as in non-comprehension,  
he could not 'read' it yet. He held the tunic in front of him.  
  
Towering over her, he asked, "I think these are your tears,  
but I'm not sure...Something happened, didn't it?"  
  
"Yes," Meg answered quietly.  
  
He looked keenly into her eyes. "Inspector?" He  
searched her face. "Margaret?" he gently asked. "Meg?"  
he whispered.  
  
He lowered his arms down to his side and allowed the tunic  
to brush the floor as he held it by the collar. The RCMP red serge now  
was the only thing that stood between them.  
  
"Oh, God, Meg. I remember now I told you I could not  
erase from my memory the 'contact' we had on the roof of that train.  
It's the taste of you. _You_ are my trigger."  
  
She was confused. "I am? For your taste? How can--"  
  
"--I can't explain it. I remember that I was able to  
track you to a warehouse or someplace....Your pheromones have triggered  
the return of my sense of smell. I need you to help me get my taste  
back...and maybe my full memory too."  
  
"Full memory?"  
  
"Oh, yes. Can't you see?"  
  
"And then you will stop acting so weird?"  
  
"Uh-huh."  
  
"Back to the normal Fraser, Fraser?" she was still  
skeptical.  
  
Giving her his most beguiling look, he affirmed, "Uh-huh.  
Trust me."  
  
"Er...I don't know," she equivocated. "Full  
memory?"  
  
"Uh-huh."  
  
She started to detect his own scent...the maleness of it.  
Her doubt lessened as her own desire grew, but the slight nagging fear  
remained. She made her decision. "Well....all right," and  
tilted her head upward to receive him.  
  
Fraser slowly released the tunic from his fingers and it crumpled  
to the floor. He gathered her in his arms, pinning hers to her side,  
and moved toward her mouth. He stopped, tantalizing close.  
  
"You're sure?" he whispered.  
  
When she imperceptibly nodded her assent, he gently took her  
mouth in his. As his tongue sought entrance, she pulled back slightly,  
but now he was totally in charge and would not be denied. His mouth  
and body pursued her, pushing her, body-pinning her against the closet  
door. She felt his hardness, smelled his musky odour. She opened her  
mouth and he eagerly began to explore its inner depths.  
  
The quiet TICK...TOCK....TICK...TOCK of the clock now sounded like the soothing CLICKITY....CLACK....CLICKITY....CLACK of train cars speeding on their way. Their tongues danced  
an erotic tango. He drew her fluids into his mouth to savor her taste  
and her tongue willingly followed.  
  
"It's all right now, son. Let nature take its course,"  
his father's voice called from the other side of the closet door.  
  
Although Fraser now heard him, the rhythm of the tango was  
not broken. He could feel Meg's hands clutching, grabbing the back of  
his shirt, her nails scratching his skin through the thin cloth. Their  
intimate dance went on....CLICKITY....CLACK and on....  
CLICKITY....CLACK. He cupped her face in his hands and entered yet again.  
  
He suddenly moaned and, as he slid his mouth across her cheek  
to leave a trail of saliva, he slumped against her with a shudder. "Oh,  
God...." he gasped.  
  
Meg was reeling. She had difficulty coming back. "Fraser?"  
He groaned again and she extracted her arms from his embrace  
but  
his body held her pinned to the door. "Fraser?"  
  
"Ohmigod, I'm sorry," he whispered. He pulled his  
face off her cheek to look at her. "I'm so sorry."  
  
She searched his face. "Fraser, what's wrong?"   
She had never seen him like this.  
  
"Everything....everything's wrong."  
  
"Why? What's going on?" She struggled to understand.  
  
"Oh, Sir, I'm so sorry."  
  
"Sir? You're calling me 'Sir' after a kiss like that?"  
  
Fraser was on the verge of tears. "I have no excuse  
for what I just did...No control....No control."  
  
"Why do you think you need an excuse?"  
  
"You don't know....How can you ever forgive me?...I can't  
forgive myself." He lowered his eyes. He could not face her.   
"I just kissed my self-respect good-bye. How could anyone respect  
or trust me?"  
  
"I don't understand...no self-respect for kissing me?"  
  
"I lied to you."  
  
"Lied?" Meg was incredulous.  
  
Yes, lied. I was putting my own needs first...trying to regain  
my sense of taste and my memory....And I asked you to trust me and--"  
  
She reached up to cup his face in her hands and ran a finger  
through the sweat on his forehead. "--Ahh, Fraser, you _do_  
sweat."  
  
"W-w-what?" He pulled back slightly from her touch.  
  
"Fraser, I know you were in my condo for a very good reason.  
I also know that you read something that you had no business reading  
and--"  
  
"--I didn't mean to....totally inadvertent....it matched  
your day-timer."  
  
"It's all right. It's really OK," she reassured  
him as she draped her arms over his shoulders.  
  
"No, it's not," he insisted. "What I am trying  
to tell you is that while I had no memory, I _did_ remember what  
you wrote because, just now, when I asked you to trust me, and imposed  
this...ah...this osculatory exercise on you, I was driven by more than  
just regaining my sense of taste. I was remembering all the...er...ah....urges  
I have been having since you and Ray took me to hospital. I was so wrong  
to ask you to trust me. You can't trust me. No one ca--"  
  
"--Fraser, don't do this. Please don't," she said  
sadly.  
  
"I am so totally disgusted with myself...so ashamed.   
I've been acting like those American Presidents. What total disrespect  
for you as a person and as my superior...for the RCMP code. Honesty  
and integrity? God! I've disgraced the uniform. I have to resign...I  
 _must_ \--"  
  
She put her index finger momentarily on his lips to stop him.  
"--Fraser, do you think for one moment that the guilt is entirely  
one-sided?"  
  
"Of course I--"  
  
"--Do you remember what else I wrote in my journal?"  
  
He looked at her quizzically. "What are you talking about?"  
  
"Martin. In Calgary."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
She looked up at him, searching for a sign of compassion and  
possible understanding. "That man was my worst nightmare. I can  
hardly talk about it," she began as her eyes brimmed with tears.  
"I was new to the posting...not too sure of myself. He wouldn't  
leave me alone. He made it quite clear that I was going nowhere in the  
RCMP unless," she gulped, "....unless I accepted his advances.  
I tried to avoid him for months. He finally cornered me...alone. I  
fought him off but he warned me that I had better not say anything because  
he would deny it."  
  
The tears freely coursed down her face. "I couldn't take  
it any more. I was so angry. I still am, and it happened more than  
ten years ago. I filed a sexual harassment charge against him....I had  
to. He tried to make it look like I was harassing _him_. It was  
ghastly. You saw how thick my personnel file is?  
  
Fraser had been listening intently and quickly nodded.  
  
"That's why. As my superior, he tried to take advantage  
of me to fulfill his own lust. Fraser, I'm no better."  
  
He tightened his arms around her. "Oh, Meg, yes, you  
are. Infinitely."  
  
"No. No! Let me finish. You don't understand,"  
she insisted as she tried to brush the tears aside. "What I wrote  
in my journal about you was private....I never intended to let you know  
about it. Yet, when you asked me if you could kiss me, I couldn't say  
no...I wanted you...I've ached for you."  
  
"Ummm."  
  
"So, don't start taking on all of the guilt here. I used  
you, too. Why do you think I came back tonight? Wearing * _this_ *  
dress? I knew you had seen it in my bedroom."  
  
"You should have worn the red silk--"  
  
"--You saw that one too?"  
  
"Saw it. Smelled it."  
  


"God! I feel so ashamed. I think I used you and you think you used me. Tit for tat, Fras--....Benton, I think we're even up on this." |   |   |   |    
---|---|---|---|---  
  
  
Fraser heaved a deep sigh, laid her face again on his chest,  
and rested his chin on her head while he pondered their dilemma. "It's  
poison, isn't it?" he ventured after a while. "We're poison...  
for each other."  
  
She raised her face to look at him. "I don't know. I  
really don't. But you can't resign....If you do, then I must, also.  
It's only fair. And besides, too many people are relying on you....Look  
at Ray. He desperately needs your help to find Solvay. I want that  
bastard caught too. Will you do that for me? Please?"  
  
He was again so close to her lips. "Yes...Yes, I will,"he  
whispered, "but, how can we put this behind us? I won't be able  
to forget your--"  
  
"--I won't be able to forget either....But no one need  
know how your memory was triggered to return. That's between you and  
me, Benton." And with the hint of a twinkle in her eyes, she looked  
deeply into his. "Welcome back...I've missed you...In the meantime,  
how 'bout losing the five o'clock shadow and suiting up? You're on duty  
for the rest of the night."  
  
Fraser returned her gaze, smiled, and gently gave her a short,  
sweet kiss. "Understood," he said softly.  
  
  
  
EPILOGUE  
  
  
Amid the usual intense activity of the bullpen, Lieutenant  
Welsh conferred with his detectives. Pacing back and forth, he attempted  
to understand the fruits of their investigation. "What's with this  
guy Solvay?"  
  
"Chief, all our leads evaporated," Dewey offered.  
  
Fraser, wearing the freshly laundered red serge, interrupted  
the discussion as he came into the squad room.  
  
"Fraser--"  
  
"--Hey, Constable, welcome back. We've--"  
  
"--Nice to see you back, Constable," Welsh finished  
for all of them. "We were just trying to figure out--"  
  
"--You haven't found Solvay then?"  
  
"Nope," Kowalski admitted.  
  
Huey tried to bring Fraser up to speed on the case. "He  
didn't spend much time in that dump of an apartment of his--"  
  
"--And we don't think he had any accomplices in the Theater  
heist," Dewey added.  
  
Welsh topped it off. "The only thing we found out is  
that a couple of hours ago, his getaway car was found abandoned in International  
Falls and--"  
  
"--Yes, it would take him about that long to drive there,"  
Fraser pondered. "I imagine he would have wanted to obey all traffic  
regulations, so he wouldn't call attention to himself."  
  
  
Ray had difficulty keeping up with Fraser's thought process.  
"So, if he didn't have any friends...Why would he head to Canada?  
No connections, nothing. How're we gonna find him in that trackless  
wilderness?"  
  
"It's very logical, Ray. International Falls isn't a  
very busy border crossing. He probably thought he could casually cross  
into Canada on foot. He wouldn't try it in a stolen car."  
  
"But why Canada?"  
  
Fraser patiently explained, "Solvay escaped to Canada  
because even the lowest, most vile thief knows how favourable the exchange  
rate is on the American dollar. Once across the border, he will make  
the exchange and end up with a fortune, by Canadian standards."  
  
Kowalski liked this theory. "So, how to find him?  
  
Fraser turned to Welsh. "Leftenant, I suggest someone  
call the Consulate to get the phone numbers for the RCMP detachments  
in Winnipeg and Thunder Bay. Fax Solvay's full description and mug  
shot to them. They in turn will distribute the information appropriately  
to banks and currency exchange centres. Solvay will be apprehended in  
short order, I assure you."  
  
"Thank you, Constable. As always, you come through.   
Huey, Dewey, get on it."  
  
As the group broke up, Ray suggested, " You want some  
coffee? Tea? Come on, my treat," he offered as the two police  
officers walked down the hall.  
  
"Ya know, Frase, you're a real piece of work...I'm glad  
you're back. You OK now?"  
  
Fraser was more thoughtful than usual. "Yes, now...but  
when I had the amnesia..." and flushed bright red as Francesca passed  
them, "I did some terrible things..."  
  
"Well, I didn't think so," she said under her breath.  
  
"...Terrible things."  
  
"So, did the Ice Queen find out?"  
  
Fraser stopped abruptly to give him a hard look. "Ray,  
she is **_not_ ** an Ice Queen," and resumed walking. As  
they turned the corner, Kowalski put his arm over Fraser's shoulder.  
  
"Yeah, women," Ray's disembodied voice said. "If  
you ever figure them out, tell me. I got problems, too."  
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